


All the First Dates

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Barry has some medical issues because of a lightning strike, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Angst, Romance, Some Humor, several first dates, yes that's it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[no superpowers AU]<br/>Barry is struck by lightning and when he wakes up, his memory doesn't work as it should. Every morning he wakes up without any recollection of anything after the accident. He never would've thought that something good could come out of it... but it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my knowledge of the consequences of lightning strikes come from online research, I apologize for any inaccuracies or downright ridiculousness. 
> 
> Yes, I'm kind of stealing from my own thallen fic 'struck' here, as well as robbing the basic premise of the film '50 First Dates.' But I had too many ideas for this fic and I had to get all the fluff (and sweet, sweet suffering) out :D I'll be forever grateful for any comments, ideas, suggestions etc.

“What the…?!”

  
Barry sits up on the bed, wincing at the pain that shoots up his arm, down his back. His eyes widen when he sees bandages – what happened to him?! His first instinct is to look around: he’s not at a hospital, but he’s not at his apartment either. It’s his old room, the one at Joe’s place, Anastacia and Linkin Park posters staring at him from the walls. But Barry’s not fifteen anymore: a quick look down his body tells him that he hasn’t magically time-travelled while he slept.

 

He lets his feet dangle to the floor: he remembers the feeling of his toes sinking into the warm carpet in the morning, but it does not explain why he’s here. The bandages are a dead giveaway to some accident he must have been in, but his head starts pounding viciously as he struggles to remember anything more.

 

A soft knock on the door interrupts his thoughts and he glances up, only to see Iris peeking in. Thank god she doesn’t suddenly look fifteen either: Barry hasn’t really been considering the time-travel theory seriously, but it’s a relief anyway.

  
“Good morning,” she smiles, and Barry can’t help but smile back, despite all the confusion. “How’re you feeling?”

 

“Um,” he starts – he doesn’t want to worry her, but he does need to know what’s going on, and a quick look at his old alarm clock tells him it’s half past nine, meaning Joe is probably at the precinct already and thus unable to provide any explanations. “What happened to me?”

 

She enters the room, a little tentatively, and Barry has this ridiculous feeling like she’s a bit afraid to talk to him. He offers a smile to ease the tension, and it seems to work, because she sinks down on the bed next to him. Her hand is warm when it covers his, and Barry suddenly feels a little self-conscious about being half-naked. Well… maybe quarter-naked, considering the ridiculous amount of medical-grade cotton wrapped around his body.

  
“You don’t have to worry- I mean, obviously, you _do_ ,” she chuckles as she catches Barry’s eyebrow rising at her opening statement. “The doctors said it’s completely normal that you have trouble remembering. There was an accident, at your lab, and… you’ve been struck by lightning. Don’t worry,” she continues hastily, which to Barry feels like a reason to actually start worrying in earnest. “You should make a full recovery. It’ll just take some time.”

  
“How much time?” Barry frowns – they’re kind of in the middle of a convoluted case and the evidence he should process has been piled up on his table even without any freak accidents to keep him out of the lab.

 

A shadow passes Iris’ face at the question, but she quickly covers it with another smile.

 

“It’s hard to say. But really, you’re making great progress already, I mean, just a couple of days ago you couldn’t even remember where you were, so-“

  
“Wait,” Barry blinks, his heart speeding up with anxiety. “A couple of days ago? What day is it?”

  
Iris winces at his tone and bites her lip.

  
“Friday.”

 

The last day Barry remembers is a Monday: he frowns as he tries to wreck his brain for any recollection of the past week.

  
“Don’t worry about it, alright?” Iris squeezes his hand. It’s quickly becoming one of Barry’s least favorite phrases ever.

  
“You just told me I lost four days of-“

 

Something in her expression makes him stop mid-sentence.

 

“Wait. What’s the date today?”

  
He reaches to the nightstand for his phone before she has a chance to answer, and takes in a sharp breath when he glances at the screen.

 

“Thirtieth of- January?! I just lost five weeks?!”

 

Iris winces, probably in sympathy, and reaches for his hand again. He lets her fingers wrap around his death-grip on the phone, but it doesn’t really help with the rising tide of panic.

  
“Barry, just breathe. You’re getting better every day. You were in a coma for a while, you just woke up three days ago. The doctors said you might experience some memory issues in the nearest future, but it shouldn’t be permanent. You’ll get through this. I’m here for you, and so is Dad.”

 

That _does_ help just a little bit, and Barry’s breath slowly evens, until he’s able to look at Iris properly again.

 

“So what do we do?” he shrugs – if he had a broken arm, he would have to do some rehabilitation exercises, but what does one do with a broken mind?

 

“We’re going out,” Iris grins and lets go of his hand. “I’ve decided you can’t just sit here and watch TV all day. So, I have yoga in an hour, and you’re coming with me.”

 

“To yoga?” Barry asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, but it comes out a little high-pitched and reluctant anyway. Iris just laughs and slaps his good shoulder.

 

“No. To the park. You get some fresh air, I go to my yoga class, we pick up coffee and cake on our way back. How’s that sound?”

  
It’s not like Barry has anything better to do than mope about the weeks of his life he lost.

  
“Gimme twenty minutes to get ready.”

 

Even though it’s silly, Barry is pleased when he remembers the way to the park: he kind of dreaded not recognizing the city or getting lost in places where he grew up, but he still knows all the streets and turns and little shops tucked into side alleys. A train passes by and Barry remembers his way back home from Starling City, but everything after that is a blank. His head starts hurting again when he forces himself to recall anything more, though, so he lets it go for now and waves to Iris when she points out the direction where she’s heading.

  
“Wait for me in the park?”

 

He nods to that and heads towards the entrance. Central City doesn’t usually get much snow and the park is more brown and grey instead of white, the grass dried out and the trees mostly bare; it’s chilly, though, and Barry’s grateful for the deep pockets of his coat. He wanders around and enjoys the quiet – not many people have chosen to spend a Friday morning in the city park, so he’s mostly alone apart from occasional brave joggers, their regular breaths leaving puffs of white behind them, and a few homeless guys occupying the benches and rubbing their hands together to get some feeling into them.

 

Barry’s close to the small pond in the middle of the park when a wave of dizziness sweeps over him and makes his knees weak. The world spins out of focus in a weightless sensation of falling, and Barry only has a second to think ‘shit’ before-

 

-hands are wrapped around his biceps and he collides with a solid body. His vision is still dark and he makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat that was supposed to be ‘sorry’ to the stranger who stopped him from getting a face-ful of the dirt road. The strong hands don’t let go, though, and the man – it has to be a man, Barry might not be seeing much at the moment but he does get a light whiff of cologne – helps him to the nearest bench.

  
“You okay?” he asks, and Barry nods before his vision clears up.

  
“Yeah, sorry… I’m fine. Thank you.”

 

It’s curious how he’s managing full sentences, because he’s still feeling dizzy as hell, and he’s not sure his legs are going to hold him up if he tries to stand. A mild spike of panic makes his heart beat faster and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. A hand covers his own: cold and a little dry, but it’s human contact, so warmth isn’t all that necessary. The man must be crouching in front of him, because his voice comes from around the height of Barry’s chest now.

 

“Are you sure?”

  
“Yeah,” Barry repeats. “I’m… I’ll be alright. It’s just. I was in an accident-“

  
“Now?” the man asks sharply and he shifts, brushing against Barry’s knee and Barry can hear the sound of a phone dialing, so he rushes to answer.

  
“No, not now – it was a while back, but, you know.”

  
“Long-term consequences, huh.”

  
Barry nods and the black dots clouding his vision finally start to recede. He’s almost startled when he sees his good Samaritan for the first time: the guy’s seriously handsome, older but definitely in the category of nines or tens, as far as Barry’s limited appraisal of the male form goes. He offers a tentative smile and gets one in return, together with a hand-squeeze.

 

“You doing better now?”

 

“A little. I’ll just sit here for a while,” Barry adds, because his legs still feel quivery and unstable even when he’s sitting. The man gets up: Barry has about two seconds to regret that he’s leaving so soon before he addresses Barry again.

  
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

 

Barry spends the next fifteen minutes staring at the still surface of the pond, wondering if he shouldn’t call Iris just in case. But he doesn’t want to interrupt her yoga class, and maybe she doesn’t even have the phone on her, so he does his best not to think about all the possibilities how this could go wrong. The man could be an axe murderer for all Barry knows – even though his eyes seemed so gentle when he looked at Barry, as if he was truly worried about Barry’s well-being.

 

He’s half-frozen and just about to try and get up, feeling a little silly for expecting the handsome man to be back, when he turns his eyes from the tiny ripples in the water and sees the familiar form of his savior rushing to him with take-out paper cups in his hands.

 

“Wasn’t sure you should have caffeine right now,” he shrugs and thrusts one of the cups towards Barry, who accepts with a quiet ‘thanks’. “So, hot chocolate. You’re not lactose intolerant, are you?”

 

That makes Barry chuckle in surprise and shake his head. Handsome _and_ considerate, huh – is this Barry’s lucky day or what? A pleasant shiver runs down his spine when the man settles on the bench next to him and takes a sip from what smells like a latte. Though it might not be just the proximity that’s making him shiver: Barry wasn’t so acutely aware of how cold he is before he had a hot cup squeezed in his trembling hands. He must be making the whole bench vibrate because Hot & Considerate notices, and in the next moment, a warm scarf is wrapped around Barry’s shoulders and neck.

  
“Better?” the man smiles – and wow, is he gorgeous like that, with his blue eyes reflecting the cool morning light. Barry finds himself smiling back a little, even though his hands are still shaking. Which is strange, because he’s not so cold anymore, not with Mr. Hot’s scarf around him and his thigh pressed up against Barry’s. He forces himself to look away from the guy’s smile and down at his hands around the chocolate cup; he can feel himself frowning, but his fingers seem to have a mind of their own. He’s about a second away from freaking out about it, because his hands are what he makes his living with: that and his brain, and both seem to be on a fritz at the moment, which does not bode well for Barry keeping his job at CCPD, if they haven’t already fired him somehow, what with him missing five weeks of work, five weeks of _life_ , with no exact date of expiry on his condition-

 

The man gently extricates Barry’s drink from his unsteady grip. The cups give a dull clack as they’re set down on the bench, and then his fingers wrap around Barry’s, warmed up from his latte. It’s embarrassing, really, how Barry’s hands (just the right one now, mostly) twitch and jerk between the man’s dry palms, but the guy doesn’t let go, he just gently treads their fingers together and smiles again.

  
“You looked like you could use some more warming up,” he says, easily, as if he’s not aware of what’s happening to Barry – or more like he is, but he wants to make it easier for Barry to accept the gesture with minimal damage to his pride. That’s fine by Barry: his pride is pretty much in shambles right now so he’s willing to just roll with it and enjoy the fluttery feeling of holding a beautiful stranger’s hand in the park on a winter morning.

 

“I’m Barry,” he speaks after a while, as his tremors start to subside. “I’m told I was struck by lightning.”

 

“Hi, Barry,” the man offers a cheerful, mock-support-group greeting that elicits a quiet chuckle out of Barry:

  
“Your turn.”

 

“I’m… Leo.”

 

“Hey, Leo,” Barry mimics his response from earlier and steadily ignores the tiny voice in his head telling him that a normal person doesn’t usually make a pause when they’re about to give their name to someone they’re willingly holding hands with.

  
“So, what are you doing in here alone?” Leo’s voice is filled with concern, and Barry hates it just a little bit: he’s used to being self-sufficient, or at least that’s the last thing he actually remembers, and this newfound identity of someone obviously incapable of being left to his own devices doesn’t sit well with him at all. He will have to get used to it, though, at least for the near future, no matter how much he hates it – so he opts for a shrug instead of frowning.

 

“My sister’s in her yoga class. She thought some fresh air would do me some good.”

 

Leo smiles, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like the whole world is plotting against Barry’s happiness. “Has it?”

  
“I think so, yeah.” It’s not much about the air, though: it’s got much more to do with the surprisingly slender fingers wrapped around his own, and Barry really wants to ask Leo if maybe they could go someplace warmer sometime, but Leo’s phone vibrates and the comforting grip of his hand is gone the next second. He gives Barry an apologetic look but he reads the text anyway and his expression darkens: his eyes narrow and shut out the light that was reflecting in them just a second ago, and Barry knows the moment is gone.

 

Leo is gone too, in a flurry of ‘gotta run’ and ‘nice meeting you, Barry’ and ‘catch you later’, and Barry reaches across the now empty bench for the hot chocolate, the only reminder that he hasn’t dreamed up the whole encounter in his wrecked brain. When Iris finds him just a heartbeat (or an eternity) later, he’s shivering again, but he still smiles and tells her what a great idea this was. He silently vows to himself to remember the kind man with startlingly blue eyes and beautiful hands, and asks Iris if they can make this a regular thing.

 

……

 

Len knows he’s going crazy when he finds himself sitting behind his computer on Sunday, googling yoga classes in the vicinity of the park. He’s definitely upping his stalker game here, but he can’t shake the memory of the boy’s hand practically vibrating in his grip, of his hazel green eyes looking at him like Len had answers to anything. It turns out there’s a group that meets Friday mornings and Tuesday evenings at a nearby community center; and if Len spends the next forty-eight hours planning the next heist a little more aggressively than he usually does, nobody has to know.

 

He’s at the park come Tuesday, despite his better judgment. He contemplates leaving several times, only his iron will stopping him from bouncing his foot off the frozen ground. It’s a little early, and two steaming cups of hot chocolate sit right next to him on the bench while daylight fades into an early winter evening. He shouldn’t be so panicked at the thought Barry might not show – it’s not like they actually made plans, not like Len has any confirmation that Barry would even like to see him again. But if he’s learned something in life, it’s that when he wants something, he should at least try and take it, before it’s too late: so he sits and waits, counting the tiny clouds his breath forms in the air, until he sees a familiar figure approach.

 

Barry’s wearing the same coat, and Len’s heart skips a beat when he sees his scarf wrapped around the boy’s neck. He watches Barry walk towards him, slowly, with his hands in his pockets and his head turned towards the pond – it has frozen during the weekend, a paper-thin sheet of ice smoothing over the usual ripples in the water, lending the sight unusual tranquility. Len is content just looking, until Barry’s so close he could just lean forward and reach for him: he opts to speak up instead.

  
“Hi,” he smiles, and Barry turns to him, visibly startled – for a split second, a frown crosses his face, but then he’s tentatively smiling back.

  
“Um… hi?”

 

There’s nothing but blank curiosity in his eyes, maybe a hint of wariness: it cuts right into Len’s pride. Is he that easy to forget? But underneath all the pride, Len’s still a smart guy, someone used to observing his surroundings as well as other people, someone used to putting pieces of puzzles together – and he remembers Barry saying he was struck by lightning. Could it be that his memory is one of those long-term consequences, along with the tremors?

  
“Sorry,” he raises both hands defensively. “I just wanted to ask if you knew what time it is.”

 

Barry reaches into his pocket, and in the three seconds it takes him to pull his hand out again, Len calculates the odds for the appearance of a phone or a bottle of pepper spray. Thankfully it turns out to be the former; Barry flicks his finger over the screen to unlock it while giving Len an appraising glance that was probably supposed to be inconspicuous.

 

“Seven twenty.”

  
“Thanks,” Len smiles, almost certain that he should just turn and leave… but the memory of Barry’s hand in his forces him to soldier on.

  
“So,” he shrugs and smoothly transitions into his ‘Charming Liar’ mode. “It looks like I’ve been officially stood up on this date… want some free hot chocolate?”

 

Barry’s eyes travel to the bench, where the Styrofoam cups are still sitting, and then back to Len.

  
“I… don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean… you seem like a nice guy, but… I don’t know you.”

 

Len barely prevents himself from cringing as he suddenly sees himself through Barry’s eyes: a stranger in a dark park, offering free cups of who knows what to innocent passers-by.

 

He really should’ve thought this through. Then again, he didn’t really know the guy wouldn’t remember him: Len makes a mental note to come up with a better plan as he weakly waves at Barry:

  
“That’s cool. Good night.”

 

Barry seems hesitant to leave, despite his apparent suspicion of Len’s intentions, but in the end, he simply waves back and smiles, muttering ‘good night’ as he quickly walks away, his shoulders squared under Len’s scarf as if he’s bracing for a surprise attack.

  
Len tosses the hot chocolate into the nearest trash bin and takes the opposite way out of the park.

 

……

 

Barry is bored out of his skull.

 

Technically, he only remembers today, so he shouldn’t feel like he’s been sitting around doing nothing for weeks, but maybe boredom is like muscle memory and he’s remembering it subconsciously. He honestly doesn’t remember free days being this long, and it’s still only two in the afternoon. He feverishly searches for anything to do in Central City on a Thursday afternoon, and settles for an exhibition in the old gallery, even though he’s never been a great art connoisseur.

 

He leaves a note on the fridge for Iris and Joe, so they don’t worry if they come home early. Barry doesn’t really plan to stay out late, so he should be back before they arrive: mostly he just needs to get out of the house and feel like a functioning human being, after the morning when Joe had to stick a straw into Barry’s morning juice because his hands shook too badly to simply lift the glass to his lips. Both Iris and Joe said it was normal, and that he shouldn’t worry too much… but with the memory thing and the shaking, Barry feels like anything _but_ normal, and he needs to prove to himself that he can at least go out for an hour or two alone and be okay.

 

He keeps his trembling hands in his pockets and braves the twenty minutes of strangers staring at him on public transportation, heaves a long sigh of relief when he gets off the bus in front of the gallery. The building is old and maze-like, and Barry’s happy to join a group for a guided tour: well, he’s happy for the first fifteen minutes, maybe, before it becomes quite apparent that their guide might be a little overexcited and undereducated on the subject – Barry only notices the latter because of another visitor. Barry stands right behind the guy, so he’s probably the only one who hears the snide comments and elaborate insults the man keeps huffing under his breath whenever the guide says something that must be spectacularly wrong: he keeps correcting the dates, the prices of paintings, tiny unimportant trivia about the artists, and on one occasion, when the guide excitedly raves on and on about how they can see original paintings on the walls, the man snorts ‘original my ass’ and Barry has to bite his lip not to snigger out loud.

 

Barry ends up following the man closely, listening more to his ironic jabs than the guide’s gushing about the art: he feels a little bit like a horrible person for having so much fun listening to someone being mean, but hey, someone who’s been forced on paid leave has to take his fun where he can get it. The tour’s almost over when the mysterious king of sarcasm produces a pack of gum from his pocket, offering some to the kid standing in front of him. Barry’s heart melts a little at the gesture – and then the man is turning to him with a cocky smirk.

  
“I could hear you giggling, you know,” he says, holding the gum to Barry, who takes a piece purely to mask his embarrassment while he’s trying to come up with an excuse.

  
“You can be rude in a very… educational way,” he shrugs in the end, which makes the man’s smirk widen.

 

“Know much about art?”

  
For some reason, Barry has to laugh at that – he’s promptly shushed by at least three other guests _and_ the hyperactive guide. The man gives him an amused look and turns back to the displayed paintings with a mock-serious grimace, which Barry takes as a rather abrupt, but definite end to their conversation. He keeps stealing furtive glances the man’s way, though, just a little disappointed that no more scathing remarks cut through the guide’s chirping. Barry only notices the group has drifted to another room when there’s barely anyone left behind; the backs of the last guests are disappearing through the doorway and Barry takes a few hurried steps to follow when a hand grasps his wrist, and the man is smiling at Barry in a way that’s making him forget paintings and sculptures with alarming speed.

  
“Come with me.”

 

Barry doesn’t even think about protesting. He can feel his heartbeat full force when he lets the man drag him who knows where, and maybe Barry should be thinking about how much of a bad idea it is to let strangers lead him places, but he doesn’t. In the next room, the grip on Barry’s wrist slackens, but the man doesn’t let him go; his fingertips brush Barry’s palm, making him shiver despite the warm coat he’s wearing, and then their hands are tangling together. The man never looks back, his wide shoulders Barry’s horizon for the moment, and he just lets himself be pulled, guided, the thrill of the unknown pumping through his veins. It feels a lot like living, letting his feet fall against the polished marble in empty halls, passing paintings he doesn’t understand in a world that no longer makes sense because he keeps forgetting so much of it. A sense of melancholy overtakes Barry when he realizes he probably won’t remember this tomorrow – this museum, these paintings, this man and this feeling, none of it will exist when Barry wakes up the next morning. Will the man remember Barry at all, or will the moment disappear completely?

 

They stop in the last room – it’s much smaller than the others, and the twenty feet of plain white wall is covered by a single, large canvas. It’s a picture of a street, deserted except for a single figure standing in the middle of the wet pavement, and yet there’s nothing simple or easy about the painting. The trees lining the road are vivid strokes of red and orange, green and yellow, purple and blue: Barry would’ve never believed someone could use colors like that and make them work together so perfectly. Barry can almost feel the fresh air that comes after rainclouds have cleared from the sky, the slight chill of a late autumn day, and something about that single figure makes him feel so immensely lonely he tightens his fingers around the other man’s for just a moment. The man returns the gesture, just a twitch of a movement against Barry’s hand, and Barry’s torn out of his reverie: he’s not alone here, even though the painting made him feel like it for a second. He’s not sure if he likes it – loneliness has never been an enjoyable feeling for him, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s difficult to look away.

 

“It’s one of the few originals on display here,” the man speaks, and his voice is quiet, but it still reverberates in the empty room strangely. “The artist isn’t very famous, but the piece was a gift to the gallery, so they put it up a few years ago. I’ve been coming to see it since.”

 

Barry frowns at the thought – the picture is somehow difficult to look at even with someone there with him. He can’t imagine coming here alone: just the thought makes him subconsciously lean closer to the man.

  
“It’s so lonely, though.”

  
“Lonely?” the man repeats, raising an eyebrow: Barry tears his gaze away from the painting, but the man’s eyes are staring forward, into the swirl of colors that should feel a lot more cheerful due to the palette chosen. “Yes, I guess that’s a part of its charm.”

 

“Is that why you brought me?” Barry shrugs. “Because you didn’t want to look at it alone?”

 

The man turns to him then, his eyes blue like a stroke of paint, and for a second, Barry can see him coming here, all alone, sitting on the narrow, hard bench in front of this painting and looking at the blurry back of a tiny oil figure whose only companion is his (or her?) own reflection on the wet pavement. Barry’s heart skips a beat, and the man blinks, then smiles, and the moment is broken, both of them chuckling as if quiet laughter could erase the shared melancholy of this room.

  
“Coffee?”

 

“I don’t even know your name.” Barry isn’t bothered by that, honestly, but he wants to know it, anyway.

 

“Leo.”

  
That makes Barry raise an eyebrow in suspicion. “…like da Vinci? You’re kidding, right?”

  
“I could pretend to be ‘Jack’ or ‘Tony’ or something equally ordinary, if that would make you agree to the coffee?”

 

Leo’s smile is warm where his fingers are cool against Barry’s hand, and suddenly Barry can see them here in ten years’ time, holding hands and reminiscing about the surreal way they first met, about how looking at this painting felt lonely for the last time because they always had each other to hold on to when they came back to see it again.

 

And Barry won’t remember this tomorrow, the painting, Leo, the sudden knowledge that the coffee is worth a try.  Barry won’t know any of this in just a few hours, and the next breath he takes feels like tiny needles twisting against his heart.

  
“I… have to go. Sorry.”

 

“Wait-“

 

He untangles his hand from Leo’s and decidedly doesn’t look at any swirls of paint in the room.

  
“Thanks for... um. Everything,” he mutters before he flees the sad painting and the man that could’ve meant something to him if he only wasn’t broken.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Len is fairly confident this time. He’s got a solid plan – and a dog leash sticking out of his pocket. Finding Barry is easy: his dark red coat sticks out like a splash of color against the grayish dullness of the park and Len takes a deep breath as he pulls a mildly panicked expression onto his face before walking straight to the guy.

  
Len should just walk away, leave the kid alone to get through his post-lightning issues, but he finds it harder and harder to do that with every time they meet. He almost decided to leave Barry be after that ‘suspicious beverages from a stranger’ fiasco… but then he went to the gallery to scout out the painting which Lisa wanted, and Barry was _there_ , giggling at Len’s insults like he didn’t even know that Len could hear him choke his laughter down whenever Len made a particularly cutting remark under his breath. Eventually he kept the shit-talking going for Barry’s sake – the kid had a cute laugh, even when it was muted by Barry’s hand over his mouth as the boy tried to keep others from hearing him. And then Len took him to see the painting and Barry fucking asked him if he was _lonely_ – Len is forty-three and an accomplished thief, and this kid, this fucking kid thought he was lonely, and it should’ve been ridiculous, but it made Len stop and think. He’s always been good at evaluating the situation, no matter how much something surprises him; and he’s got to admit that maybe he _has_ been craving a little bit of company (that isn’t his sister or Mick).

 

“Hey,” he says: the slightly confused, quizzical look in Barry’s eyes speaks volumes about how much of a bad idea this is. But Len’s a master of taking a bad idea and turning it into a viable plan, so he takes Barry’s tentative ‘hi?’ as encouragement and pulls his best helpless smile.

  
“Have you seen a dog around?”

  
“Um… no?”

 

“Shit,” Len curses under his breath and looks around. He’s laying it on a bit thick with the desperation, but he needs to be convincing if he’s got any shot at executing his plan.

  
“You’re not supposed to let your dog off the leash if it’s not well-trained,” Barry speaks up, and Len almost gives him an eyeroll, but he forces the sarcasm down in lieu of a worried sigh.

  
“I know. Dog’s not mine, I’m just walking it for a friend. Thought it _was_ trained.”

  
Barry shrugs at that and bites his lip – it really shouldn’t be that adorable on a grown man. Then, he skips a few awkward steps in Len’s plan by asking: “Do you want some help looking for it?”

  
“That would be great, thanks,” Len doesn’t even have to fake relief as he gives Barry a grateful smile, then extends his hand:

  
“I’m Len.”

 

When he was trying to come up with a good plan of approaching Barry without looking like a creep or having to rely on coincidences, he decided that if he’s going to pursue Barry for real, he should at least provide his actual name. Not that ‘Leo’ was too far off… but nobody’s called him that in his life and he doesn’t particularly like the sound of it.

  
“Barry.”

  
A warm hand slides into Len’s grip easily for a quick handshake and Barry looks around: “Did you see where the dog ran?”

  
“That way,” Len waves in a random direction, down a path that twists around the pond in the distance. He has to pretend to search for a dog, but his eyes keep straying to Barry every few seconds. He can’t remember feeling this nervous in a long time. During heists, every move is carefully planned, and Len always does his best to know all the variables, but it’s impossible to plan a conversation when he doesn’t have enough knowledge about the other person to predict what they would say.

 

He’s torn out of his thoughts by Barry’s next question.

  
“Shouldn’t we be calling the dog? You know, its name, ‘come here’ or something?”

  
“Right,” Len mutters – he hasn’t exactly planned _this_ either, and he’s starting to feel like his plan isn’t nearly as great as he assumed, but he refuses to give up so easily. “Axel! C’mere! Axel!”

 

The kid thief is enough of a stray dog that the name fits an imaginary mutt like a glove. When Barry smiles and mumbles something about a nice name before he starts calling for the nonexistent dog, Len can’t help but believe he made the right choice.

 

They spend maybe twenty minutes strolling through the park, calling out and diverting from the path occasionally to look under suspicious-looking bushes. Len teases Barry a little when the kid manages to get his coat caught on every branch he passes, but whenever it happens, Len holds Barry still a little bit longer, taking his time to unhook the offending branch from the red coat. The guy’s eyes are the palest, clearest green when Barry blinks up at him, all blush and no words, and all Len wants to do every time it happens is to kiss him. But Barry always dances away, flustered and a little bit off-balance, shouting at a dog that doesn’t exist, and Len has to bite the inside of his cheek more than once to stop a frustrated groan. He’s not used to this: all the men he’s been before fell into an unambiguous yes-or-no category. Either he made a move and the guy was very clearly not interested, or interest immediately sparked into action. This slow teasing is different: there’s interest in Barry’s eyes when Len invades his personal space, but the ‘no’ that is visualized by Barry’s pulling away… Len doesn’t know how to deal with this much gray in his relationships.

 

He keeps calling out for the dog half-heartedly as he trails after Barry and watches the younger man, the way his hair stirs in the chilly breeze and the way his shoulders shift under that coat (and a scarf that’s not Len’s today, he’s a little disappointed). Just as he’s beginning to doubt whether he shouldn’t just thank the kid and let this whole ridiculous idea go, Barry turns to him with a bright, happy smile.

 

It’s like a kick to the stomach, the force with which he reacts to that expression. Len’s blindsided heart does a crazy somersault and it takes him a moment to register what Barry’s saying before the kid’s running off to yet another bush:

 

“I see him! Your dog!”

 

…what?!

 

Len hurries after Barry, who’s crouching down and mumbling something – when Len gets close enough, he recognizes the words as ‘it’s okay, buddy’ and ‘you’re safe now’. Barry shifts a little and smiles at Len again, revealing what looks like a moving ball of mud but upon closer inspection turns out to be an animal – its species can only be determined through a series of soft yips as a pink tongue darts out to slobber over Barry’s hand. The dog looks thin, despite the thick layer of everything winter ground has to offer sticking to its fur: it’s not quite a puppy, judging by its size and build, but not an adult dog either. One quick look at their surroundings reveals that there’s no one else running through the park looking for their pet, and a horrified realization dawns on Len.

 

He came to the park to get himself a… Barry, and accidentally got himself an armful of dirty dog.

  
“Aren’t you glad you’re back with someone who loves you?” Barry keeps mumbling to the animal, still grinning happily as he keeps running his hand down the matted fur, ignoring the mud that’s sticking to his red coat. Len is once again rendered speechless. He can’t bring himself to tell Barry that this isn’t his dog: it would be easy to just say that he’s looking for another one. But then the twenty-pound puppy yips right in Len’s ear and licks the side of his face, and Barry laughs.

 

Len is lost.

 

“Thank you,” he says when he finds his ability to speak again. Barry turns that luminous smile to him and shrugs.

  
“Happy to help. I’m just glad this little guy won’t be sleeping outside, all alone and scared. Isn’t that right, buddy, huh?”

  
“Speaking of alone,” Len hoists the dog up in his arms a bit while he bemoans the loss of a perfectly good parka to mud, “it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. If you don’t have better plans, I’d like to take you out for coffee. Dinner. Need to thank you for helping with Axel.”

 

 _Smooth,_ his inner sarcastic voice sneers when Barry blinks at him. Len is about eighty-seven percent sure Barry’s going to say ‘no’, just like he declined an invitation for coffee before, in the museum. To his surprise, Barry turns an interesting shade of crimson.

 

“Like… a date?”

 

Len recognizes this as a possible out of the uncomfortable situation. He stubbornly refuses to take it. It’s a little bit difficult to be suave when there’s a mud monster squiggling in his arms, trying to eat the hood of his parka, but he makes a valiant effort anyway.

  
“Exactly like that.”

 

He didn’t think Barry could turn any redder but the kid manages. His hand rises to rub at the back of his neck, a nervous tic that results in a muddy smear right under Barry’s ear. Len wants to reach out and wipe it off, but a) it would be a little too daring before Barry says yes to the date, and b) his hands aren’t any cleaner at this point, so he lets it go and waits while Barry coughs and swallows and bites his lip for a while.

  
“I… uh, I probably won’t remember you tomorrow.”

 

The honesty gives Len a pause, but he feigns surprise and smirks just a little:

 

“Ouch. Doesn’t bode well for getting myself a date for tomorrow if I’m that easy to forget.”

  
“No! That’s not what I-“

 

Barry’s eyes go comically wide, but he cuts his sentence off when he sees how hard Len’s trying not to laugh.

  
“No,” the kid repeats with a sigh. “I mean, I literally won’t remember you. I was kind of… in an accident? And my memory’s been wonky ever since.”

  
“Would you _like_ to go out with me? If you didn’t have to worry about that?” Len asks, voice gone soft with unexpected fondness for the bumbling kid in front of him. Barry looks up at him and Len’s heart stops for a moment: so much hinges on Barry’s answer right now that it’s a little difficult to breathe. He swears to himself that he will leave Barry alone if the guy tells him he’s not interested, but it’s not an outcome he wishes for in the six seconds it takes Barry to decide (and blush).

  
“Um. Yeah? I guess?”

 

“Not the shining endorsement I was hoping for, but I’ll take it,” Len grins. “Six o’clock tomorrow, east park entrance?”

 

“That’d be nice, but I told you. I won’t remember.”

  
“Remind yourself.”

 

Barry’s confused frown is a thing of beauty, but the dog in Len’s arms starts wiggling like crazy so he doesn’t get the time necessary to admire the expression on his Valentine’s face. “Phone, Barry.”

  
“Oh! Yeah, right, that’s-” Barry blinks, and his lips curl into a perfect smile. He pulls out the phone and unlocks the screen: Len sees the kid bring up a new reminder on his calendar before he looks up again: “Okay, won’t it be weird when I don’t even know you tomorrow?”

  
Len shakes his head in amusement at that. “Guess you’ll have to trust your past self and take a leap of faith.”

 

“My past self thought it’s smart to touch metal during a lightning storm.”

 

“Noted. I promise our date will be free of charge,” Len winks and Barry stares at him for about two seconds before he bursts into chuckles that sound more surprised than anything else.

  
“Awful puns, huh, that’s what I always wanted for Valentine’s.”

  
“What a shocker.”

  
“Ha-ha, continue that and I’ll remind myself that I should be glad I don’t remember this.”

 

Contrary to his words, a smile is tucked into the corner of Barry’s lips as he finishes typing that reminder into his phone and pockets it, then reaches to scratch the dog’s muddy head.

 

“So… see you tomorrow?”

  
“Indeed. And thanks.” Len’s grateful for Barry accepting his invitation more than for Barry finding him a dog, but he doesn’t explain it and as he watches Barry smile and duck his head down before he turns and walks away.

 

He looks back two times, and Len counts it as a success despite the wiggling mud-monster in his arms. The original plan, one that forms in his head when he yelps in pain as the dog bites his ear and nearly takes his eye out with a paw, is to release the damn dog somewhere further away from the park. There are just a few things wrong with that plan: first of all, the dog is really just an overgrown puppy. If Len were to let him go in some side alley, chances are ‘Axel’ wouldn’t find his way home, wherever that is. Second, there are cars everywhere, and Len doesn’t particularly want to watch a confused baby dog get run over by a truck.

 

That’s how he ends up walking into the old warehouse converted into a passable living space with the dog still in his arms.

 

As soon as Axel’s chubby paws reach the floor, he yips, twists around… and creates a puddle of impressive size.

  
Len takes a disgusted step back before it reaches his shoes and thanks heavens for small mercies of the dog not peeing on his parka.

 

Lisa’s voice reaches previously unknown registers when she steps out of the kitchen space and spots the muddy furball. “What in hell is _that_?”

  
“A dog,” Len shrugs. He’s never been a fan of stating the obvious, but he has to admit that in the dog’s current condition, it might be a little difficult to tell with certainty what it is.

  
“Let me rephrase,” Lisa scowls and folds her arms over her chest. “ _Why_ is there a dog in our safehouse?!”

  
“I found him in the park?”

  
“That doesn’t actually answer my question, Lenny.”

 

It always fascinates Len how she can say his name in a wide variety of ways, ranging from threatening to loving. Right now, it’s on the lower end of that scale.

 

She’s right, Len knows that – bringing a pet to a safehouse is a bad idea for a great number of reasons.

  
“Is he eating my shoe?!”

  
Lisa’s wardrobe is just one of those reasons. Len sighs and picks Axel up, betting his parka on the chance that even a puppy won’t need to pee twice in one minute, and removes the neon green stiletto from surprisingly sharp teeth. They end up buried in his thumb and Len swallows a curse.

  
“Buy new shoes,” he tells Lisa as he carries Axel towards the kitchen, opening the fridge. Maybe the dog’s just hungry and he’ll leave Lisa’s atrocious footwear alone if he’s fed. Thankfully, there are a few cartons in there, and Len randomly pulls one out-

  
“You crazy?” Mick grumbles from behind his back and Len frowns.

  
“No.”

 

He might be, but both Mick and Lisa have likely seen all of his ‘crazy’ before and they’re still here, so Mick asking that question would have to refer to a new kind of insanity, which Len will deny until his dying day. Even though chasing about memory-impaired younger guys might be considered insane in its own right.

  
“You can’t feed last week’s Chinese to a dog,” Mick huffs and before Len knows it, there’s no Chinese and no dog in his arms. With no little amount of schadenfreude, Len awaits the inevitable cursing as soon as the puppy bites Mick-

 

-but of course, in Mick’s arms, the dog suddenly melts into a dirty ball of harmless fluff and there’s an honest-to-god _smile_.

 

Len’s not sure if it’s more surprising on Mick’s face or the dog’s.

 

“Aren’t you cute,” Mick coos, which ends up sounding like a low growl and Len exchanges a quick look with Lisa over the breakfast counter.

  
“Don’t even think about it,” she warns. “That creature is _not_ staying here. Len’s going to take it right back where he found it.”

  
Mick looks up with a menacing glare. “Like hell he is.”

 

Len raises his hands in surrender: he doesn’t particularly like the idea of just taking Axel back to the park and leaving him there, but he’s also glad that it’s Mick and not him who has to argue with Lisa over it. Predictably, Lisa zones in on Mick with her best death glare:

  
“What do you wanna do? Keep a pet? Will you take him with us to heists? Will you hire a dog nanny when you’re out there robbing banks, huh, Mick?”

  
“We’ll take turns,” Mick replies gruffly and Lisa just snorts:

 

“I’m _not_ taking care of your dog, are you insane?! What if he starts barking and someone finds this place because of the noise? What if there’s dog hair in our equipment and it stops working in a critical moment? You can’t keep him, Mick, and that’s final.”

 

Mick solemnly turns to Len. The damn animal licks the pyromaniac’s stubbly cheek and gives Len the more adorable, less disturbing version of Mick’s puppy-eyes.

  
“Fine,” Len groans, ignoring Lisa’s noises of complaint. “But it’s on you, Mick. I’m not gonna end up walking him every morning, I swear.”

  
“Did you _both_ get hit in the head?!”

 

“C’mon, baby boy, you need a bath… and Aunt Lisa has a nice shampoo.”

 

“Mick, if that dog comes back smelling like my L’Oreal, I’m going to gut you both!”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Barry is still a little confused from everything Iris just told him about being struck by lightning when his phone starts vibrating. He averts his eyes from his best friend’s concerned face and picks it up: there’s a reminder that makes him blink, to make sure that his vision isn’t impaired, and then raise an eyebrow.

  
“Barry? Are you listening?”

 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says and lets the phone fall onto his bed: he needs time to process that reminder and that time is not when Iris is still talking to him.

  
“As I was saying,” she continues, giving him a bit of a pointed look, “it’s Valentine’s Day.”

 

Her blush makes Barry’s stomach twist. He vaguely recalls a half-assed decision to try and ask Iris out on a date before Christmas, but having spectacularly failed that, he can’t remember if he ever managed for real. His palms go damp at the thought of Iris reminding him that they were going to spend this Valentine’s Day together – but the reminder in his phone said something else and Barry’s thoroughly confused at the moment.

  
“Eddie asked me out – you remember Eddie, don’t you?”

 

Barry’s stomach stops twisting and drops down several metaphorical stories. He forces himself to mutter an affirmative and wonders if he could forget this conversation if he went to sleep immediately. Not remembering the previous day suddenly doesn’t seem like such a bad deal, considering this will likely be the first Valentine’s Day in fifteen years that he won’t remember as yet another February 14th he failed to tell Iris how he feels.

 

All he wants is to crawl back under the covers, but Iris slaps his knee playfully and smiles wide:

  
“But I have a surprise for you too!”

 

“Yeah? Does Eddie have a cute cousin who needs a date?” Barry chuckles, and Iris rolls her eyes:

  
“No- well, I don’t know, I can ask if you want? That’s not what I meant. A girl called and said she wanted to come see you. Felicity Smoak? She said you met in Starling City. So I told her she should come today!”

 

Barry’s eyes widen in dawning horror. Felicity is amazing and cool and smart and Barry really likes her – as a friend – but judging by that knowing smirk on Iris’ face, Barry can only imagine how that particular call went.

  
“You didn’t- what did you tell her? You didn’t try to set me up with her, did you?”

  
He’s going to die of shame before he can forget this day, he’s sure of it.

 

“Relax, Bar… it’s not a date. Felicity was very clear about that. Though if I were you, I’d break out the one good shirt you have,” Iris winks and practically floats out of Barry’s room on her Cloud Nine, Valentine’s Edition.

  
Barry considers suffocating himself with his pillow. He ends up slamming his forehead into the hard edge of his phone and he groans, propping himself up on his elbow as he picks up the phone again.

 

_Date w/cute guy 6pm east park_

 

That doesn’t tell him much, except that his forgetful self apparently started owning up to his bi-curiosity at some point in the past few days (or weeks). Also that his past self sucks at writing reminders: how is Barry even supposed to find this guy? He’s got the time and the place, but how will he know what the guy looks like? What is his name? How did they meet? Barry’s head swims with unanswered questions until it starts to hurt a little, at which point he resolutely pulls himself out of bed and towards a shower. He can as well make difficult decisions once he’s clean.

 

Felicity gets to Central a little past four, which gives Barry plenty of time to drive himself crazy about that reminder.  He’s still not certain if he wants to give it a try, but by the time he spots Felicity in the crowd at the train station, he decides that friends he _knows_ take precedence over mysterious dates.

 

Felicity hugs him and murmurs about how worried she was when he wouldn’t wake up. Barry wraps his arms around her and notes that she’s dressed nicely but not in anything that would point towards Iris’ overt meddling, so he’s probably safe on the ‘this is not a date’ front. Unless Felicity has the same problem as he does – that is, her date clothes being the same as her everyday clothes. Having seen a fraction of Felicity’s wardrobe, Barry really doesn’t think that’s an issue.

 

He wastes no time asking Felicity what’s new with her life, and he enjoys just listening for a while, making surprised or amazed noises in appropriate places. It’s nice to focus on her instead of the mess in his head, but of course, the peace does not last forever.

  
“Now tell me how _you_ have been,” she demands with a worried frown and Barry sighs.

  
“Do I have to?”

  
“Of course you do. I didn’t just spend half of my Valentine’s Day on a train to talk about myself. Spill, Barry… how’re you holding up?”

  
“Aside from the fact that everybody seems to be moving on with their lives while I’m stuck in one place? Great,” he smiles without any trace of amusement. Felicity reaches over the table and squeezes his hand.

  
“Oh, Barry… I’m so sorry.”

  
“I’ll get over it.”

  
“Is there anything I can do?”

 

The concern in her face makes Barry clench his teeth – all he wants is to wave it off and smile, tell her he’s fine and ask her about something silly and light-hearted and fun. But something in him snaps as he looks into her eyes, and he can’t stop the floodgates from opening.

 

“Not really? Apparently I just have to wait it out, see what happens in a few weeks. God, I hate not knowing,” he lets go of her hand to bury his fingers in his hair, tugging at the short strands until the uncomfortable pull borders on pain and helps, a little bit, with the tension building up inside his chest. “I hate that Iris has to explain my own life to me every morning. I hate that I don’t know what happened yesterday, or the day before, or a week ago… and I’m going crazy. I can’t work, you know? My hands apparently shake sometimes, which is weird to think about because today they’re perfectly steady, but Iris said that sometimes I can’t even hold a glass of water and that’s so disturbing, that I don’t know this about myself. I don’t know anything, I don’t know when it will go away, _if_ it will.”

 

“I wish I could help you,” she sighs – then perks up and leans over the table with a grin: “How about you start keeping a journal? That way, you won’t lose anything. You could just write yourself a note, so you can read it every morning and Iris doesn’t have to keep telling you… and you can write about your day in the evening so if you want to remember something, you’ll just read about it. How’s that sound?”

 

Barry stares at Felicity for a long moment as the tension in his chest drains away slowly.

 

“Like you’re a genius,” he breathes and tentatively returns her grin. “You’re a genius, Felicity Smoak, you know that?”

  
“I’ve been told a couple of times,” she chuckles, and suddenly, his phone is a dead weight in Barry’s pocket, insistent and impossible to ignore. He blushes as he thinks of the implications of the first message from the past he left for himself, and Felicity raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“What is it?”

  
“Nothing,” he tries, but she never bought his shit for a moment and she doesn’t start buying it now.

 

“Barry. Tell me.”

 

“I… um,” he stammers, then pulls his phone out and quickly taps through it to the reminder, handing it to her. “I apparently got myself a date, somehow.”

 

She looks at the screen briefly and then laughs, offering his phone back.

  
“Cute guy, huh? What’re you doing wasting your time with me, then? Go get him!”

 

Barry can feel his whole face catch fire.

  
“But I don’t even remember him.”

  
“If you thought he was cute at some point, your tastes couldn’t have changed so much, could they? You still have some time before six. So go.”

  
Her understanding should be helpful, and Barry’s itching to listen to her, but his insecurities catch up with him before he can bolt. He stares at the words he doesn’t remember typing into his phone and shakes his head slowly.

  
“What do I even tell him? ‘Hey, I’m the guy you were supposed to go on a date with, which you probably know but I don’t because I have no idea who you are’?” he snorts, his mind a whirl of self-deprecation and regret.

  
“Well… maybe not in those exact words,” Felicity laughs at him softly. “Look, Barry, I’m not saying you have to go, but don’t you think you owe it to yourself to try? You haven’t had a date in… how long?”

  
She knows, because they talked about their unfortunate feelings for people they can never have, but Barry appreciates the tactful omission of the sadly huge number of years he’s been dateless and basically life-less. Barry knows she’s right – it doesn’t happen to him often, having someone be interested in him, and he’s always been awkward and downright awful at trying to pick someone up. Having an actual date means that either someone did find him interesting enough to ask, or the guy was so intriguing that Barry got over his bumbling incapability to express his feelings: either way, it does sound worth a try.

  
“What about you?” he frowns as he mulls it over. “You came all the way from Starling-“

 

“-and I can come see you another time. It’s not the end of the world, Barry… and you need something cool to write about in your new journal, don’t you? Now stop finding excuses and go. I’ll forgive you for ditching me in exchange for shirtless pics of a cute guy,” she winks.

 

Barry wants to stay and talk to her – but he’s painfully aware of the fact that if he doesn’t go now, if he misses this tiny window of opportunity, he might never know if he had a shot at something good. He doesn’t know what this guy looks like, he doesn’t have his number (he knows, he checked his phone for any names he didn’t recognize, but there were no new ones), so going to that park right now is his only option.

  
“You’re the best,” he tells Felicity as he stands up and leans over, kissing her cheek. She swats him away with a chuckle:

  
“I know. And you’re gonna be late.”

  
It’s almost six when Barry runs out of Jitters – he makes it to the park in twenty minutes, breathless and sweaty and shaky, panic gripping his stomach and telling him that he’s late, that the guy will be gone.

 

A tall man pushes away from the iron fence delineating the park’s borders. He’s older than Barry by at least a decade, but he’s… yeah. Cute doesn’t even begin to describe it: if Barry’s heart wasn’t already beating fast from his jog through the crowded streets, it would definitely pick up pace when he takes in the lean lines of the man’s body, concealed in a dark blue coat. There’s a nerve-wracking moment when Barry has to resist the urge to look over his shoulder, because surely he couldn’t have landed a Valentine’s date who looks like _that_ – the guy _must_ be waiting for someone else.

 

But no. He walks straight to Barry, his lips curving up in a smug smirk that Barry never would’ve thought attractive until this very moment.

  
“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” he says, in a voice that’s all velvet and gravel and promises that make Barry’s knees go a little weak.

 

“I almost didn’t,” he admits, and the man’s frown gives him a mental kick. Telling your date you didn’t want to come isn’t the best way to start off the evening, so he quickly backtracks and waves his hands:

  
“Not that I didn’t want to! I mean, I didn’t- I’m not making this any better, am I,” he sighs and waits for the inevitable ‘it was nice meeting you, _but_ ’. To his great surprise, the guy lets out a quiet chuckle, a deep and pleasant sound that reverberates through Barry (and for a second, he’s a little disappointed that even the guy’s _laugh_ is so perfect – he’s really way out of Barry’s league).

  
“Let me help,” he says and offers a hand to Barry. “I’m Len.”

  
Barry accepts the handshake and frowns when at least a few neurons in his brain start firing again.

 

“Did I agree to go on a date with you before knowing your name?”

  
It’s strange that he would introduce himself when they’re supposedly acquainted and a red light goes off in Barry’s head, but the man simply shakes his head, still smiling.

  
“You knew my name for about an hour by then. Helped me find my dog, mentioned your accident... I thought I’d save you the trouble of having to explain it all over again.”

 

Barry lets out a quiet ‘oh’ and wonders if being struck by lightning authorized him to one freebie from whoever controls his fate, because there’s no other explanation for him being lucky enough to catch the attention of a man who is both insanely handsome _and_ sweet.

 

Except-

 

“Are you going to lure me to an abandoned warehouse and then chop me into tiny little pieces?” he asks, pretending he’s one hundred percent joking when in fact, it’s more like sixty. Or fifty-two.

 

The man – Len – laughs at him, which is actually an appropriate and healthy response. Barry doesn’t acknowledge that he’s only truly relieved when Len stops snickering long enough to answer.

  
“How about we stick to at least semi-public spaces for tonight?”

 

It’s a good suggestion – they end up getting coffee at the nearest shop. It’s crowded and stuffy inside, and when Barry’s nearly knocked over by the third person trying to make their way out without paying much attention to other people, Len curls his arm around Barry’s shoulder and draws him close, turning them a little so Barry’s out of people’s way while they wait in line. It’s such a simple, sweet gesture that it leaves Barry blushing for the next fifteen minutes. Len is solid and warm and smells like winter and soap, and when Barry tentatively slides his hand under his open coat, around his narrow waist, he gives Barry the most brilliant smile Barry has ever seen in his life.

 

He’s still blushing by the time they reach the counter, too preoccupied by Len’s closeness to give any thought to what he wants. Len orders them the ‘Valentine Special’, whatever it is, and Barry doesn’t even protest when Len leans closer as they wait and whispers awful, sarcastic comments about the red-and-pink décor of the place. Barry giggles like a schoolboy and mutters something back, not even sure if it’s funny – the cozy warmth of Len’s casual embrace has made him all stupid and slow, but Len’s still smiling and neither of them cares about the glares from the staff when their irony gets a little too loud.

 

The Valentine Special turns out to be hot chocolate with little pink hearts floating on top and a huge heart-shaped cookie. Len lets go of Barry’s shoulder, making him regret the loss of the physical proximity, but then he makes way for Barry through the crowd and Barry, once again, feels oddly cherished. He’s never dated a guy before, not really: he’s had minor, passing crushes, but he never actually asked anyone out, and now, heart thudding against his ribcage and his cheeks warm from more than the overheated air of the café, he can’t help but wonder why it took him so long.

 

Maybe he was waiting for Len to show up in his life all along – and that’s a ridiculously sappy thought, considering he’s just met the guy half an hour ago, but Barry’s never been exactly rational when it came to surrendering his heart in a flash.

 

He takes the heart-shaped cookie from Len and divides it to halves so they can share; it makes Len laugh in that low rumble that Barry feels down to his toes.

  
“Should I take it as a warning that you’re a heartbreaker?” Len asks as he accepts his half of the cookie.

 

He’s ridiculous and Barry can already feel the rush of falling. “You tell me.”

 

“Why do you have to be a heartbreaker... when I was being what you want me to be…”

 

It takes him a second to realize that Len’s softly singing through a huge grin, and it startles a loud laugh from Barry. No matter how warm and fuzzy the lyrics make him feel, he’s also terrified, because Len, just like in that song, is being exactly what Barry could want from a Valentine’s date. The knowledge that Barry won’t remember any of these moments tomorrow breaks his heart – no matter how much he writes in some journal, he will never know how this moment felt. He makes a valiant effort to battle the sudden wave of melancholy and swats at Len’s arm:

  
“Oh my god, how old _are_ you?”

  
“Older than that song,” Len chuckles and Barry makes a mental note to Google ‘Heartbreaker’ once he’s done with his cookie because his best guess is somewhere in the ‘80s. Not that age matters to him – but he finds himself wanting to know everything there is about Len, fill his head and heart with this handsome man while he still knows what it feels like. What _Len_ feels like.

  
“Tell me a secret,” Barry demands when they cross the street back towards the park.

 

“A secret?” Len repeats, probably stalling as he thinks of something equally juicy and not too embarrassing.

  
“Yeah. Something not many people know about you?”

 

Len contemplates that with a quiet ‘hmm’ and Barry turns to look at him: illuminated by the tiny lights draped over the trees in the park, Len’s eyes sparkle and make Barry remember that he missed Christmas this year.

  
“Haven’t had a date on Valentine’s in over a decade,” Len mumbles in the end and Barry’s torn out of his thoughts about whether or not they would’ve met without Barry’s accident.

  
“Oh my god. You _are_ old,” he groans and shakes his head, barely able to suppress a grin. “That’s it, we’re done here, grandpa.”

 

Len mock-groans and presses his hand over his heart, singing another part of that awful, cheesy song, something about everything he wanted passing him by, and Barry’s laughing so hard his eyes sting with unshed tears. God, he’s missed this in his life; he might not remember the past few weeks, but the years before that are clear in his mind, and he can’t remember a date where he wasn’t thinking of Iris.

 

Iris, who is out with Detective Pretty Boy right now, probably having the time of her life, and the thought doesn’t even hurt as much as it used to, not with Len so focused on him, as if Barry truly is everything the man ever wanted.

 

How can he forget this? Barry refuses to believe that his mind would just let this go but he knows that memory doesn’t work like that – he doesn’t get to pick what he remembers and what he won’t.

  
“Hey,” Len whispers and Barry realizes that his tears of joy have become an altogether different sting. Len’s hand is gentle against his cheek and Barry leans into the touch, swallowing hard.

 

“I don’t want to forget today,” he mutters the truth that threatens to choke him and squeezed his eyes shut: he refuses to cry like an idiot on Valentine’s Day, with a perfect man right there with him. He’s lucky – luckier than he’s been in years, and yet he has to hold his breath in order to hold one persistent sob deep in his chest.

 

His eyes fly open when he feels a warm brush of dry lips against the corner of his mouth and he lets out a squeaky, strangled noise somewhere between that stupid sob and a surprised yelp.

  
“Suppose you’ll have to set a better reminder next time, then,” Len’s breath warms Barry’s frost-bitten skin and his head spins a little when he finally meets Len’s eyes. He’s so close Barry can count the man’s incredibly long lashes, and Barry’s brain is a little slow to react.

  
“Wha…?”

  
“For our next first date,” Len smiles, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, the only logical solution. It’s a little hard to breathe for a second, which makes speaking difficult, but Barry finds himself nodding in a daze. He can’t believe that this perfect man actually exists, that there is someone out there who makes Barry feel like this _and_ is willing to put up with Barry not even remembering his name or his face.

 

Len holds his hot chocolate while Barry types out a reminder with a lot of exclamation marks; he holds Barry’s hand afterwards, when they take a slow stroll around the frozen pond, passing couples on the way. For once, looking at other people’s happiness doesn’t make Barry feel wistful at all. When the crisp February air makes Barry shiver, Len slips their joined hands into his pocket. They don’t talk, but it’s okay – Barry can’t help but feel like he doesn’t want to ask too many questions, for fear that he will ask them tomorrow, or on their next date, all over again and then Len will get fed up with having the same conversation, stuck in a loop of Barry’s faulty brain. The silence doesn’t drag and catch, though: it envelops them like a cozy blanket, separating them from the rest of the world, and Barry only realizes he’s smiling when he glances at Len and sees the same expression mirrored in the man’s stupidly symmetrical features.

 

When Barry comes home, it’s a little after midnight and he gets a strange sense of accomplishment – here he is, at the very beginning of a new day, and he still remembers everything he’s come to know about Len. He’s not willing to take any chances, though: he makes another reminder in his phone to read his new journal, then opens up a blank text document and, thinking back to Felicity’s advice, starts typing.

_Dear tomorrow-me,_

_first of all, stop freaking out. Also you have a boyfriend (I think). And he’s awesome._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes to Gemenice for offering advice and insight and generally assuaging my fears XD

“That furry ball of shit chewed up my Louboutins,” Lisa sweeps into the kitchen in a flurry of rage and theatrically throws herself down onto the nearest chair. The abused wood creaks under the force of the impact and she drags the milk carton towards her so energetically Len can hear it sloshing from ten feet away, but he doesn’t even blink. Lisa’s shoes have always had a terrible life expectancy in hideouts, even before Mick decided to keep a pet, so she should really be getting used to an outcome like this.

 

“Axel?” he asks, just to clarify, and Lisa shoots him a glare:

  
“No, Gus.”

 

Len frowns into his cup of freshly brewed coffee and turns to his sister.

 

“Who’s Gus?”

 

“The dog. Axel kept whining about how he didn’t want to share a name with a dog. And you know how Mick is with the mangy brat.”

 

“Gus?” Len repeats again, and Lisa catches onto the derision he pushes into that single syllable. It’s a stupid name for a dog, after all.

 

“It’s ‘Gas’, actually… short for ‘Gasoline’,” Lisa clarifies and Len nearly chokes.

 

“Who let Mick name a living being?!”

 

“Dunno,” she smiles brightly and flips her hair over her shoulder so she doesn’t dunk it into her bowl of cereal by accident. “Maybe the asshole who fucked off to a date and left his poor sister here to watch over the stupid dog while Mick and Axel did the nasty, Valentine’s edition with extra weird sounds.”

 

Len doesn’t make a face at that only because he’s an adult and the mention of his friends having sex should not weird him out (even when it’s Mick and Axel, who can both be weird enough on their own).

 

“I wasn’t on a date,” he lies smoothly, but of course, Lisa simply snorts and shovels cereal into her mouth. She’ll probably pick all marshmallows out of the box in retaliation later.

 

“Yeah, right. _That_ ’s why your bathroom smelled like Armani.”

 

“You sniffed my bathroom?”

 

“I didn’t _sniff_ it on purpose, I just went to _use_ it.”

 

“Why?”

 

It’s not even a real bathroom – it’s just a toilet, a sink and a cracked mirror in what used to be a warehouse manager’s office and is now Len’s room; she could’ve used the sink in the kitchen corner or the showers and toilet stalls in the back so Len doesn’t see a reason-

 

“I refuse to use anything Axel might’ve been sitting on while getting pounded,” she says resolutely and this time, Len does cringe a little. They’ve all had a talk about using common spaces for sex, but neither Mick nor Axel were receptive to the idea of keeping certain things (and bodily fluids) strictly to themselves.

 

“You should probably reconsider sitting at that table, then,” Len says calmly, just to rile her up, and smirks when she nearly inhales some milk and then grabs her bowl to go stand by the counter instead. She sees his expression and huffs, then chucks her spoon at him. Len ducks easily out of the way and grins some more when she has to walk to the cupboards to get a new one.

 

“I’ll talk to them,” he promises by way of peace offering – he’s not looking forward to it, but history has shown that Axel _will_ clean and disinfect if Len glares at him hard enough. It’s been keeping household chores to a pleasant minimum for the rest of the crew.

 

Lisa nods; she gives the table a calculating look and gets back to the counter instead.

 

“Now stop avoiding my question. How was your date?”

 

“Matter of fact, you never _asked_.”

 

“ _Lenny_.”

  
“Fine,” he huffs, and he knows Lisa is raising an eyebrow even though he’s turned his back on her, pretending to be preoccupied with buttering his toast.

 

“Is that ‘it went fine’ or ‘fine, I’ll tell you’?”

 

“It went fine,” he repeats with a huff. He has no idea why Lisa squeals like a wounded baby seal.

 

“Oh my god, you’re so totally in love with him.”

  
Len doesn’t really know what to say to that. Saying ‘I’m not’ would feel both childish and startlingly false, and ‘how did you get that from _fine_ ’ would just affirm Lisa’s uncanny suspicions.

  
“How do you even know it was a _he_ ,” he says in the end. Lisa’s snort is just as aggravating as she planned it to be, no doubt.

  
“Please. You haven’t dated a girl since you found out what a person with a dick can do for you.”

 

She’s not wrong, so Len doesn’t grace that with a response – no need to provide her with ammunition.

  
“Come on,” Lisa whines after he spends thirty-five seconds spreading butter over his toast with extreme care and precision. “Are you gonna make me beg? I spent my Valentine’s picking up dog poop.”

 

He has to look at her at that, if only to raise a disbelieving eyebrow in her direction. Predictably, she rolls her eyes:

  
“Fine, I spent my Valentine’s avoiding _stepping_ in dog poop and then yelling at Axel to pick it up. Doesn’t make it any better. I wanna live vicariously through your tales of back alley blowjobs.”

 

Len considers throwing the knife at her, but she would just yell louder if he got butter in her hair.

 

“No blowjobs.”

  
“See? _Now_ I get why it was just ‘fine’. Handjobs?”

  
“No.”

  
“Oh my god, did he take you home? Are you still sore? Is that why you’re so grumpy?”

 

It’s moments like these that Len wonders what possessed him to accept Lisa as a part of his crew. He turns to her with a scowl and bites viciously into his toast, shaking his head. She knows he doesn’t speak with his mouth full, so he’s got about nine seconds to think – but she’s also great at waiting him out, so there’s no escape.

  
“It was… nice,” he says in the end and Lisa’s eyes touch the ceiling again.

  
“Seriously? You can launch into a five-minute speech before a heist but now you’re giving me ‘fine’ and ‘nice’? Shame on you. And shame on your taste in men for choosing someone who doesn’t even qualify for a proper description.”

 

A wave of indignation on Barry’s behalf rises up in Len’s chest and he frowns at his sister darkly.

 

“Nothing wrong with him. Young, cute, funny… tall. Sweet. We just had coffee.”

 

There’s a glint in Lisa’s eyes – it reminds Len of her expression when she sees something she wants (to steal).

  
“Oh my god. I was kidding before, but you totally love him.”

 

Len scowls and turns away from her again – which just makes her squeal harder.

  
“Oh my _god_! You’re _blushing_?!”

  
“No.”

  
“Yes, you are! Wow, please tell me you didn’t fuck it up?! Are you meeting him again? You have to see him again!”

 

“What’re ya yelling about so early,” Mick grouses as he enters the kitchen and beelines for the coffeepot. Len clenches his teeth in the microsecond before Lisa opens her mouth again:

  
“Lenny’s got a boyfriend!”

 

“Yea?” Mick mumbles and picks two clean cups off the rack.

 

“No,” Len grunts.

  
“Yeah!” Lisa sniggers. “He so totally does! Lenny’s got a boyfriend,” she adds in a sing-song voice and Len honestly considers strangling her just as Axel steps in, wearing only Mick’s shirt (Len chooses to imagine he’s got some underwear on, too, but previous traumatic experiences speak against that possibility).

 

“That’s cute!” the boy purrs, and Len gives him the Death Stare.

  
“It’s not. Clean up the fucking bathroom,” he snaps and stalks away before they can pester him any more. He’s just going to eat his breakfasts with the dog from now on… and he absolutely refuses to think of the puppy as fucking Gas.

 

……

 

Len sits down at a small corner table and makes sure he’s got a clear view of the room. Barry’s not here yet, but that’s alright; Len made sure to arrive early in order to scope out the place (and maybe wait outside and drag Barry elsewhere if there was any suspicious police activity around). It’s been four days since Valentine’s and Len wouldn’t admit it, but his stomach is all tied up in knots. His dreams have been full of hazel eyes and soft lips, and he can’t wait to kiss Barry again. That’s not the scary part, though: Len is moderately well-versed at self-control and it has been decades since he’s been thrown off-balance simply by his carnal needs. No; the scary part is how much he’s looking forward to _talking_ to the kid, just seeing him and holding his hand again. Len feels sixteen, uncomfortable with the force of the feelings swaying him back and forth and making it very difficult to concentrate on anything else.

 

Oh, he’s still planning the heist: it’s a week away, at best, and while Len’s fairly confident they can pull it off, he can never be one hundred percent sure what will happen. He wants to see Barry before that, wants to have at least one more day with the kid, one more memory to hold on to for the lonely nights that await him.

 

He’s being selfish, he knows that. All he can think of is that Barry won’t remember him anyway, even if Len disappears for a couple of weeks, maybe months, before the heat around their upcoming job dies down. It’s a shitty thought to have, and he’s a horrible person for thinking it: that Barry’s condition couldn’t be more convenient if he specifically asked heavens to send him an ideal boyfriend. Not that heavens would – Len must be on every ‘Naughty List’ there is in the universe by now. But Barry not remembering him is a curse and a blessing all rolled up into one neat package. While it could be a little frustrating in the long run, it also means that Barry won’t miss him when Len has to stay holed up for some time. It means that Len can tell himself that he can have this, have Barry, without the guilt of rarely being there, without feeling like he’s hurting someone because he can’t show his face in public without getting his ass dragged to jail.

 

Maybe Lisa is partially right. Len wouldn’t say ‘love’ just yet, but there’s a whirlwind of expectation and want and soft, fuzzy fondness in his gut, something that makes him want to see Barry again and again and again. Len can’t seem to stop remembering the way Barry looked, picking up a muddy dog or sipping from a heart-printed cup, offering Len half a cookie heart and laughing at Len’s singing. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel Barry’s cold fingers wrapped around his own, brushing over Len’s hip through the lining of his coat pocket.

 

Maybe Lisa’s more than a little right. Len doesn’t really want to think about it too much.

 

He glances at his watch and it tells him Barry’s late; not unexpected, but frustrating nonetheless.

 

It takes twenty more minutes before Len has to order to stop the baristas from giving him the stink-eye: he grabs a cup of tea and walks back to his strategic table. Fifteen minutes later, he has to actively focus on not jiggling his leg under the table like a nervous schoolboy before his first date.

 

The tea goes cold, and Len keeps waiting. Ninety-four minutes since Barry was supposed to show up – Len’s foot is tapping out an unhappy rhythm into the tiled floor and he’s frowning out of the window at the dark silhouette of the park. The Christmas and Valentine’s decorations are gone and the black outline of the trees feels like a void, like something out of a nightmare or a horror film, a place where only bad things can happen. Len might be projecting, just a tiny bit.

 

He gets up when he can’t bear the pity in the baristas’ faces anymore and leaves the half-empty cup of tea behind.

 

……

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Len sees a shadow of a person sit down next to him. For a split second, his heart skips a beat at the thought that it’s Barry, but he doesn’t really believe that: even if this is the day when Barry shows up in the park again, he probably wouldn’t recognize Len anyway, so the chances of him randomly sitting down on this very bench are slim.

 

Len shoots a quick prayer up to whoever might be listening that it’s not Lisa: he’s feeling altogether too raw to deal with her insightful sarcasm at the moment. The heavens must be in a particularly forgiving mood, because when Len turns his head, it’s Mick giving him an inscrutable stare.

  
“Been a week,” Mick says, apropos of nothing, and Len doesn’t even have the strength to bullshit and say that he doesn’t know what Mick’s talking about. He knows, all too well: he went back to the coffee-shop the day after having been stood up, and then he spent the better part of the last week sitting here in this godforsaken cold park, heart stuttering stupidly every time he saw a female jogger, on the off-chance that Barry’s sister went running sometimes instead of yoga and Barry might have come with her.

 

No such luck, of course. And Len would very much like to believe that Barry simply did not set his reminder right, that he merely forgot… but chances are that Barry decided he did not want to pursue anything in his current state, or maybe he decided that Len was too old, too weird, too… something. Maybe he didn’t forget – maybe he simply didn’t _want_ to come. And time for useless dawdling and moping around, waiting for another chance to fall from the sky, has run out.

  
“They’re movin’ the painting tonight,” Mick adds. Len takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable.

  
“I know,” he nods. “The game’s on. Go get everyone ready – ten PM sharp.”

  
Mick leaves him be, not commenting on the futility of Len staying back a few more minutes, staring at the frozen lake like it could suddenly spit out the guy he’s been waiting for. He gave it a shot – he’s got nothing to regret. Except maybe not asking for Barry’s number, not making more plans; in his profession, Len always has a plan B, most of the time also a plan C. He does not know what it is (was) about Barry that made him act like a complete amateur and rely on the only plan they made, but here it is: he screwed up, and he lost his chance.

 

No use moping about, he decides and pushes off the bench. Depending on how tonight goes, he will be gone from Central for a while, weeks, if not months; maybe it is for the best that he did not have the opportunity to fall deeper into something he would only end up missing anyway.

 

……

 

 

“Hey, Barr… how’re you feeling?” Iris asks as she slips into Barry’s room. He’s been staring at his phone and wondering what the hell is he doing at Joe’s house, so it’s a bit difficult, trying to focus outwards for long enough to answer her question. He ends up offering a small shrug, and she smiles, but the warmth of her expression is slightly dimmed. Barry’s heart lurches at the thought of her being sad for some reason and he ends up frowning at her as she sits down on the edge of his bed.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

She blinks at him, like she’s genuinely surprised – like she doesn’t realize there’s that hint of _something_ in her face.

  
“It’s nothing,” she shakes her head and smiles; it’s better this time, more genuine, so Barry decides to put that on the back burner for now and move on to another important issue here.

  
“Okay. Any idea why my phone seems to think it’s March?”

 

Her explanation flows smoothly, and by the end of it, Barry’s left wondering how many times she’s had to say it before. Forty-ish, at least, if what she’s saying about Barry’s accident, coma and memory trouble is true, and he has no reason to doubt her.

 

“How’re your hands? Any shakes?” she asks, and Barry blinks, not sure why his hands shouldn’t be just as steady as they’ve been for most of his life (apart from his tragic attempts to ask Iris out, of course). But when he extends his arms, there are slight tremors running through his fingers and he can’t seem to fight them off. However, Iris declares that “good enough” with a bright smile and pushes a plastic cup into his hands: its contents are revoltingly green, but when Barry gives the ugly goo a tentative sip, it tastes pleasantly like bananas and berries.

 

He takes his time with the smoothie, trying to make sense of everything Iris said. It still feels surreal, like he’s watching a movie instead of living his life (and forgetting it, apparently), and Barry tries his best not to freak out, but he can see in Iris’ expression that he’s doing a poor job of it. She reaches for his knee, and her hand is warm even through the blankets as she gives him another smile.

  
“It’s going to be fine, Barr. Don’t worry. All the doctors said you have a good chance of full recovery, so don’t give up hope, okay?”

  
Barry wonders how he can _have_ hope when he will just forget it all over again, but it still feels like maybe it’s all a joke and he’ll walk downstairs and things will go back to normal again. He doesn’t really believe that, deep down, considering that if this were a prank, it would be toeing the line of ‘cruel’ and Iris has never found hurting others funny. He nods at her when he realizes that she’s probably expecting a cue that he’s not about to do anything stupid: how hard can hope be, anyway, when he only has to keep it up for a few hours? It makes him a bit nauseous to think that he will sit here tomorrow morning, feeling just as confused and surreal and Iris patiently repeating things about lightning bolts and memory loss and hope – tomorrow and the day after that and maybe, if he’s not as lucky as she believes, three months or even years from now.

 

He’s become what he never wanted to be, a burden on her, and on Joe, and Barry has to swallow forcefully to get rid of the sudden raw tightness in his throat.

  
“Gimme a moment, okay?” he asks, noticing only now that his voice is a bit raspy, like he hasn’t been using it for some time. Iris walks to the door with a slightly worried look on her face, but Barry is using all of his strength not to freak out and he doesn’t have any left to reassure her right now: he can’t very well tell her that he’s fine when he feels anything but.

 

He tries to make himself feel better by taking an extra-long, extra-hot shower, but it turns out getting naked doesn’t provide a distraction from his condition. He stares at the strange pink skin of his side, the newly healed scar tissue, tender to the touch, trailing up his ribcage and winding down over his hip in large, uneven splotches. Chemical burns, probably, with a few thin white lines where broken glass would have pierced his skin – Iris did say that lightning struck him in his lab and he landed on a shelf. He tries to ignore the tension of the skin refusing to stretch, tries to focus on washing away all the anxiety, but the scars are far too sensitive for a shower as scalding as he would need to relax.

 

Plus, the guilt about water bills settles in about two minutes in. Does he do this every morning, without remembering it? His skin is barely warmed up when he steps out again and towels off, fingers clenching in the fluffy fabric a bit too tightly, so that he doesn’t have to see his hands shake. Putting on sweatpants and a hoodie instead of a button-up and khakis feels weird, and he wonders how long until he can return to work, until he can feel useful again. He catches his own eyes in the mirror and it occurs to him that he must have stood here before, staring into the same mirror, with the same worries swirling in his head. It’s not a particularly calming thought so Barry turns away from his reflection and reaches for the door.

 

One glance at the staircase tells him he doesn’t want to walk downstairs just yet and talk to Iris, or Joe if he’s still home: Barry doesn’t even know what day it is. His insides feel too raw, too unsettled, and he knows he won’t be able to pretend that everything is okay, that he believes in his recovery when he _just_ learned there’s something wrong with him, with his brain a.k.a. the only thing he values in himself. Without that, and without his hands, he won’t be able to go back to work, and the very thought makes Barry’s stomach turn. He’s never tried to be anything else but a CSI, and he’s not good at anything else. What could he do, forgetful and trembling, except be a burden on Joe and Iris for years, decades to come?

 

Barry swallows and turns away from the stairs, from his horrid, worst-case-scenario thoughts. He walks to his bed and sits down for the lack of anything better to do, even though he doesn’t particularly love the bed in which he’s spent the past two weeks, if what Iris said is true. He’s definitely had enough sleep for now – even though he fails to feel refreshed. He grabs his phone, more out of habit than out of necessity, and glances at the screen. It is indeed March, the first Tuesday of the month that should be about seventy days away, according to what Barry’s mind still perceives as true: he has to force himself to remember it’s not actually December anymore. He taps his calendar, hoping he’ll find clues about something he’s done in that time: maybe if he finds a reminder, a note somewhere, it won’t feel quite so much like he just lost months of his life. Maybe if there is something to tell him that he’s lived through all those days since he woke up from his coma, even if he doesn’t remember them-

 

His thumb hovers over the brightly colored square of February 18th and Barry’s breath catches as he taps in to read it.

 

_DATE NIGHT!!!6@EASTPARKCOFFEE!!!DEF MUST GO!!!!!!_

He can feel his eyebrows reach his hairline as he re-reads the text and wonders if his brain is failing to get the meaning of written words now. A date…? But… how? February 18th was two weeks ago, which means that Barry was already… unwell. How could he have a date when he wouldn’t remember _who_ he was even dating? And why was it a must-go?

 

He scrolls through his calendar with a tiny spark of hope that he will find clues as to the identity of his supposed date: the only hint of romance he remembers is his unrequited, desperate love for Iris, and even back before his accident he was beginning to understand that it would never lead anywhere. And Iris would have likely told him if they somehow started dating after his accident… wouldn’t she?

 

The possibility sends a jolt of excitement (or dread) through Barry’s insides – thankfully he doesn’t have to scroll far, as he finds another colorful reminder set for the morning of February 15th.

 

_READ YOUR DIARY!!!!_

This one makes Barry pause, eyebrows hitching up in surprise. He’s never kept a diary in his life, not even when he was a kid, or a love-struck teenager mooning after his step-sister. Which sounded a lot more romantic and a lot less creepy when he was fourteen, that he will admit, at least to himself. He really has to let go of his hopeless pining after Iris… a feat that might be easier accomplished if he figures out who his mystery girlfriend is.

 

He looks to the bedside table instinctively, but the drawer isn’t hiding any strange leatherbound journals. With a sigh, Barry looks around. He definitely wouldn’t leave his private thoughts out in the open for anyone to read, not even in Joe’s house ( _especially_ not in Joe’s house, since a lot of his private thoughts would likely be about Iris). Come to think of it… with his trembling hands, he wouldn’t be likely to write with a pen.

 

While his laptop starts, Barry briefly entertains the idea of setting a reminder for himself to make better reminders – he should really learn to include more details for his future self, who will be just as confused tomorrow as Barry is today. Thankfully, the file named ‘DIARY’ sits right there in the middle of his desktop: Barry briefly fears there will be a password, but there’s none.

 

The first words of his letter to himself make him chuckle: he can practically hear his own voice saying ‘ _don’t freak out_ ’ – if only it were that easy. The next sentence makes Barry’s stomach clench and his throat tighten; breathing only gets more difficult as he reads on. He’s vaguely aware he must be blushing, because he feels hot all over, and he can’t completely believe the stark reality of computer text, telling him that he, Barry Allen, had a date for Valentine’s.

 

A date on which he got to cuddle up to a handsome man, laugh about tacky coffee-shop décor, kiss under the lit-up trees in the park, and hold hands in companionable silence.

 

Barry never would have believed that a perfect moment like that could appear in his life. It only stings more when he realizes that he doesn’t remember, that he never will – and that his next date with the mystery man named Len, who “ _made your heart beat so fast_ ”, was set for February 18th.

 

He’s still sitting on his bed, eyes caught up somewhere between the lines of the fairytale that sounds too good to be his life (to _have been_ his life, before he forgot it), when Iris appears in his room again.

  
“Hey, Barr,” she says softly, and it takes all of his willpower to look away from the screen. His vision is a bit blurry, but he can make out the pity that settles into her features as she walks closer and sits down next to him, dropping her head on his shoulder. Her scent, a delightful mixture of ‘fresh’ and ‘sweet’, ‘flowery’ and ‘fruity’, washes over him for a split second and Barry wonders how come his heartache connects more to the date he doesn’t remember than it does to the woman he’s loved since he was ten. How did this man, Len, smell when Barry leaned into him? Would he recognize the scent, would it trigger at least a tiny spark of memory in Barry’s defective brain? The questions squeeze Barry’s heart like a vicious fist and he sighs.

 

“What’s wrong?” Iris mumbles and curls her hand around his arm. He can feel her inquisitive, worried gaze on himself, and he’s shocked by that tiny part of him that doesn’t want to tell her. It’s not like Iris can do anything about him missing an opportunity at something, _someone_ ; except maybe she can, and Barry will never know if he doesn’t try.

  
“I,” he starts, but has to clear his throat before his voice stops catching on the simple syllable, “I… I think I had a date? On Valentine’s Day.”

 

Iris’ forehead scrunches up in that adorable way Barry could probably draw in his sleep if he were at all artistically inclined.

 

“Yeah, there was Felicity, but both of you said it wasn’t a- Barry Allen, did you get yourself a girlfriend without telling me?” she yelps, her expression clearing into a huge smile as she punches his shoulder playfully. Barry yelps and he wishes it were that easy: Felicity would definitely be a safe choice. At least he would _know_ how to get in touch with her, where she lived, what her phone number was. (And he’s already checked his phone five times, there’s no name even remotely close to ‘Len’ in his contact list.)

  
“Not… exactly,” he mutters and shoves down that stubborn, petty part of him that wills him to keep his diary from Iris; if he can’t have his memories, he should be allowed to at least have the next best thing for himself only. But Iris might know something, and so Barry turns the laptop towards her: he doesn’t think he could bring himself to repeat out loud what he has just read, even though he already remembers half of the text by heart.

 

He studies her face as she reads – he can see the exact moment her eyes skip over the first mention of ‘boyfriend’.

 

“You never told me-“ she starts, and he shrugs, just a little bit so as not to dislodge her from where she’s still leaning against his shoulder:

  
“I didn’t think it was important.”

 

Being bisexual never felt like the kind of thing one told the girl he was hoping to date, but more importantly, Barry was never exactly certain. He’s been attracted to four guys in his life, and three of them have been actors. The last one was a TA in one of Barry’s university classes, and apart from some grade-A stuttering when the guy was close, Barry never did anything about that.

 

Iris scowls up at him and punches his arm again.

  
“Of course it’s important! It’s about _you_ , Barry, and you’re my best friend – everything about you is important to me, okay? And if you thought I would think differently about you if you told me, I think you and I will be having words every day from now on, until you can remember the spectacular speech I’m gonna give you.”

 

He actually chuckles at that, even though the sound comes out a bit wet; Iris sighs and snuggles against his shoulder.

  
“Seriously, Barr. I’m just glad you finally found someone who sees how amazing you are.”

  
“Well, I didn’t so much find him as _lose_ him,” he mutters, and the sad reality of that crashes into him again like a wave. It’s not a tidal wave that sweeps away everything and leaves only desolation behind; more like some smaller, vicious kind that slams into his chest and leaves him unsettled for a second, then gives him just enough time to get his bearings before pushing him off-balance again.

 

He motions towards the laptop before Iris can ask, and she immerses herself in reading his pathetically sweet (and finite) love story. And how sad is it that he’s thinking ‘love’ about a man he’s never seen, a man he doesn’t remember at all, except from a few awkwardly worded sentences. Iris makes tiny sounds in the back of her throat, much like the ones she makes while watching a particularly adorable puppy video, but by the end of the last paragraph, her face is contorted with anguish again. Barry can sympathize.

  
“So you missed your date,” she states instead of asking – it’s weird that she should know better than Barry, but then, Barry doesn’t even know that February has passed, and Iris was probably here for every single one of the February mornings, even the one he should have spent fussing nervously about his upcoming second first date. “Can’t you just call him and explain? You said – wrote, whatever – that he knows about your condition. Don’t you think he’ll understand?”

  
Barry feels like an idiot: it sounds rational and so simple when Iris says it, and he wishes he had been smart enough to actually _ask_ for Len’s contact details.

 

“I don’t have his number. Or his e-mail. Anything, really. All I had was the time and the location, and since I can’t run back in time…” he trails off with an ironic chuckle, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the stinging pressure behind his eyelids.

 

He’ll always love Iris the best, because she understands what he needs without him having to articulate it into words. They lie back on Barry’s bed, the laptop going dark at their feet after a while, and stare at Barry’s ceiling as if they could see stars up there in the plain white plaster. He asks how her date went, and she tells him, in slightly embarrassing detail, as if she’s trying to make him feel better for letting him read the only pieces of his life he’s got left from the past couple of months. It does help, a little: at least one of them should be happy, and since it’s obviously not going to be Barry, with his abysmal luck, he’s glad that Iris had a good time and that Eddie has proved himself far from the douchebag the whole department believes him to be. Or believed – Barry doesn’t know whether the majority point of view on Eddie Thawne has shifted in the two and a half months he’s been absent from work. He feels the lack of purpose in his life as an amputated limb once more, so he tries his hardest to listen to every word Iris says, even though he knows he won’t remember it tomorrow.

  
Maybe he’ll write it down… at least he’ll have something to do with his time, something to write down, now that he has missed his chance to have a boyfriend to remind himself about.

 

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll delete that first entry to his journal later. What use is there to have a reminder of something he has already lost? It would be easier, and a lot less painful, not to know about the existence of any Len at all… but even as he thinks about it while nodding along to Iris’ description of the chocolate dessert Eddie ordered for them, Barry knows that he’ll do nothing of the sort. Even if reading about Len and thinking about what they could have had hurts, maybe one day Barry will wake up and instead of pain, he will see the hope in it, hope that even geeky, gangly forensic scientists can live in a fairy tale.

 

Regardless of the fact that it tends to end with the stroke of midnight.

 

……

 

Iris closes the door behind herself and leans against it, sighing quietly. What is it in Barry’s star sign or blood or genetics that makes him attract the worst luck in the world? Honestly, after everything he’s went through, the guy deserves a break, and Iris isn’t letting that break slip away just because Barry was an idiot enough not to ask for his new boyfriend’s phone number.

 

She can’t know if her idea will pan out – that’s why she didn’t tell Barry about it. She can try her best for his sake, and if something comes off it, good. If not… at least Barry would not have his hopes up. Briefly, Iris considers sneaking into Barry’s room and deleting his diary, or at least hiding it in his mess of files so that he doesn’t have to read it every day and go through the same heartbreak over and over again. But it feels like a dick move, plus Iris holds on to the doctor’s advice: Barry might start remembering more and more any day, and who’s to say that he won’t remember Len, too?

 

With determination she’s lately only put into her journalism classes (and into dating Eddie, let’s be honest), Iris types up the simple notice. _If you are the Len who had a date with a Barry on Valentine’s Day, call this number_. It doesn’t take much thinking to decide she will be putting her own phone number down: Barry doesn’t remember Len’s voice, so he won’t be of any help, and now that she’s read his diary entry, Iris knows enough to screen out potential creeps and select only the guy who actually might be Barry’s knight in a dark blue coat.

 

For a moment, she wonders if she’s stepping over some line: but then she thinks about Eddie, about how he’s such a sweetheart and makes every day brighter for her, and she can’t stand the thought of Barry being kept away from _his_ happiness by mere misfortune. No – if there’s a way, she will find it. And if it means she has to plaster her phone number all around the Central City park… well, the sacrifices a girl can make for her adorable, unlucky brother.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited Len's age to match the canon birthday we have now... so yeah he's forty-three now XD

Len is aware that everybody in the warehouse knows where he’s going.

 

“Taking Gus for a walk,” he announces, to nobody in particular, and navigates the laser web of their pointed stares. They’re not wrong to be surprised – after all, he has made it perfectly clear that Gus was Mick’s responsibility, since the pyro was the one who insisted on keeping the dog (and giving it that ridiculous name).

 

But right now, he needs an excuse, however transparent, to walk back to that park in hopes of seeing the face that has been haunting his dreams ever since he’s seen it last – and the puppy dancing around his legs, tugging on the leash hooked around Len’s wrist, is as good an excuse as he’s gonna get. The dust of the road has barely settled around all of them, and they all think that he has dragged them back to Central way too soon after their last heist, but even Lisa doesn’t say anything, just keeps giving him those smug, knowing looks. Len can’t get out of there fast enough.

 

The city’s in full bloom already, even though it’s barely the end of April, and Gus is excited about every new corner, every fresh smell. It takes a while to get to the park and Len’s stomach is knotted into a messy ball of nerves and expectations by the time they pass through the gate, towards the lake that Len remembers frosty and cold. With the blooming trees surrounding the rippling water, the scenery has changed quite a bit, but Len still recognizes the corners he saw covered in snow, the benches that used to sit in the harsh winter weather and are now shielded by the leafy branches overhead. He can almost see a familiar figure wandering nearby, but when he turns his head to catch the illusion at the edges of his vision, it turns out the man is too tall, or too broad, or too much not who Len is looking for.

 

He is aware of how ridiculous he is: it has been months since he last saw Barry, and even if it is Friday now, there is no guarantee that Barry will be here, waiting for his sister’s yoga class to end. It’s likely that Barry has moved on since, forgotten about Len completely, and Len would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was a part of Barry’s appeal when they first met, when he learned about Barry’s affliction. To be forgotten so completely that the cops could never use Barry against him, put him in a difficult position of either having to lie to the police or linking himself to a known criminal, that always intrigued Len – he hasn’t had an opportunity to get close to someone with absolutely no strings, no risks attached, that was the dream that Len never really dared to dream.

  
It was supposed to be easy – a date, a kiss, maybe one wild night before the heist: then get out of Central, get out of Barry’s life and Barry’s head, and move on.

 

Except now it looks like even the things that seem easiest aren’t actually that easy in Leonard Snart’s life. He must’ve been born under particularly shitty stars, because in the past weeks, apart from keeping himself and his crew safely off the radar, his mind has always been in this very park, remembering hazel eyes and a goofy smile. He’s never had this compulsive need to seek someone out, to keep trying even when things aren’t extremely likely to succeed – but Len can’t help and wonder what life would be like if Barry remembered him, and that tiny, stupidly romantic part of his brain that has not been eaten away by his pragmatism keeps painting vivid images in his mind, of Barry smiling at him and telling him that he remembers… something. Len’s voice, Len’s hands, or maybe the kisses they shared on Valentine’s day, shy and slow like a couple of teenagers still scared of their own bodies.

 

Len _wants_ Barry to remember – but his own caution means that he has absolutely no way of contacting the guy, apart from creeping around in this park and hoping for a miracle that will likely never come.

 

Gus is getting tired as the day draws to an end and Len knows that the time Barry used to sit in the park has long gone. The sun is getting low and even the strange, warm light casting everything in shades of gold makes Len inexplicably think of the young man, with his flushed cheeks and bright eyes. There’s a heavy weight in his chest, making it harder to breathe, but Len knows, through years and years of experience, that this, too, shall pass, if only he waits long enough.

 

He can’t keep waiting in this park, though – he tugs on the puppy leash in his hand and frowns when Gus doesn’t budge from the crumpled-up something he’s sniffing on the ground.

  
“Gus,” Len growls, but the dog doesn’t move. With an exasperated sigh, Len walks to him to remove whatever disgusting piece of trash the dog has chosen as his love interest this evening… only to freeze when his eyes fall on the smudged letters on the paper.

 

_you are the Len who had a date with a Barry on Valentine’s Day, call this num_

The numbers underneath are also a bit smudged on the edges, but Len’s snatching the paper off the ground before he can even think twice. It’s a little damp and Len decides not to think too hard about where the paper had been before he copies what he can read of the number into his phone, taking a quick photo just in case. His heart’s thundering in his chest, the last spark of hope kindled back into a flame, and he knows he should wait until he gets back to the safehouse, but he doesn’t think having Lisa (or Mick or Axel) around will make that call any easier.

 

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, and that’s not usual for him; he rarely rushes into anything head-first, without a solid plan, but the phone feels like it’s burning in his pocket when he tries to ignore it, and so he gives in just a couple dozen steps from the park’s entrance.

 

The first two attempts are a bust – one of them disconnected and the other a pizza delivery – and he forces himself not to think about how long ago that ad had to be posted. Was Barry looking for him? Did he remember something when Len was not here to reassure him that he was thinking of Barry too? The thought clenches around his throat like an iron fist and he nearly chokes when someone on the other end of the line picks up.

 

“Hello?”

 

It’s a female voice, and the disappointment sits heavy in Len’s stomach, even though he still has a couple of numbers to try out. He opens his mouth to say ‘sorry, wrong number’ when the woman on the other side says his name.

 

“Len?”

 

He freezes for a second, his criminal’s paranoia kicking in and blinking in shades of police lights, but then he wonders if maybe, somehow, this could be the right number after all. Not many people call him ‘Len’ – definitely not the people who want to see him behind bars. But Barry did; and the thought that Barry was excited enough about his date with Len that he _told_ someone makes Len absurdly happy, for about a fraction of a second before he pushes the hopes down.

  
“Who is this?” he tries, and the woman responds to his defensiveness, her voice getting softer, quieter, as if he wasn’t the one calling, as if she didn’t have the right to demand his name instead.

  
“I’m Iris, Barry’s sister. Are you calling because of the ad? I have to say I wasn’t expecting you to find it, after all this time.”

 

He can hear the judgment in that last part and a stab of guilt pierces his lungs.

  
“Business trip. Didn’t find the ad until just now.”

  
“So you’re back to Central?”

 

He shouldn’t be answering questions like that on a phone line anyone could tap; his own phone is a burner, but he could still be putting Barry or his family in danger. On the other hand, he does want to see Barry, wants to see whether it could mean anything that his latest obsession is not that of diamonds and artworks, and so, for once, his selfish desires win over his cautiousness, and he hears himself answering before he can talk himself out of it.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where did you and Barry have dinner on Valentine’s Day?”

 

The question catches him unawares and he frowns, gripping the phone tighter as he tugs Gus away from a suspicious puddle on the pavement.

  
“Excuse me?”

  
“You heard me,” the woman – Iris – says, and her tone reminds him of Lisa’s ‘no bullshit’ attitude, “answer the question, please. You have no idea how many weird calls I’ve had to take because of that ad.”

  
He’s not sure he wants to imagine, but he decides to bite and answers, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. “No dinner. Coffee at the shop next to the park.”

 

“Good,” she sighs in relief, but her voice grows sharper almost immediately. “Why did you call?”

 

Another point for her. Len mulls over all the possible answers, all the ones that would be half a lie and the ones that would make him look good, and finally settles on the simplest one.

 

“I miss him.”

 

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening, and Len considers hanging up right before she speaks again.

 

“Can we meet? I mean, no offense, but… I want to talk to you before I let Barry know that you called.”

  
The request takes him by surprise, but he can’t begrudge her the caution. He probably would react the same, if some jerk took Lisa out for a date and then disappeared for two months.

 

“Sure,” he sighs, but he can’t stop the question that forces itself out of his mouth next. “How is he?”

  
“Meet me at Jitters in an hour and I’ll tell you,” she sounds way too smug for her own good, but it’s not like Len gave her any reason to doubt that he’ll show up. “See you there, Len.”

 

……

 

He barely has enough time to get Gus home and spend a whole minute considering changing into something more presentable than a plain long-sleeved shirt, a leather jacket and a pair of his favorite grey jeans. He wonders (for about five seconds) if he’s freaking out a bit too much about a meeting with Barry’s sister, who might take one look at him and decide that he’s too old for her brother regardless of what he’s wearing – and then it occurs to him that jeans and a leather jacket might actually make him look less forty-three and more thirty-five, and he stops ogling the suit jacket hanging by the door. And _then_ , he decides to cross all the judgmental bridges when he gets to them, and grabs the keys to his bike in order to get to Jitters on time; punctuality is the one ingrained habit he does not compromise on.

 

He walks in five minutes before eight and looks around for a woman who would remind him of Barry – the same smile, the same bright eyes, probably the same lanky grace about her frame. Maybe that’s why the woman who actually waves at him does not catch his attention at first: she is gorgeous and sleek in a way Barry definitely isn’t, despite all of his other qualities. Furthermore, she’s a barista, waving at Len from behind the bar, and Len briefly regrets that he won’t ever be able to come back here if she ends up disapproving of him. Pity, that – he likes the Jitters’ season specials.

 

Her nametag, when he gets close enough to lean against the bar, tells him that he was right. Iris gives him a small smirk and he raises an eyebrow, smirking back at her – there is something contagious about her wry amusement, and Len finds that he tentatively likes her, so far.

  
“So what will it be, oh mysterious potential suitor of my brother?” she asks, and Len chuckles.

  
“How did you know it was me?”

  
“Well, you were the only guy in his… late thirties? Who walked through that door in the past twenty minutes alone and has ‘a bit of grey in his hair but it only makes him look hotter’ and ‘has gorgeous blue eyes that get a bit squinty, in a totally cute way’.”

 

“Forty-three,” Len corrects her, and while her eyebrows fight not to rise, probably in mild disapproval, Len wonders whether she’s actually quoting something. Or someone. “Thanks for all the compliments, I suppose. Did Barry tell you that?”

 

She smiles, apparently already over his age – for now – and shrugs:

  
“Something like that. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like to drink first? My shift will be over soon.”

 

He orders an iced chai latte and smirks at her when she gives him a teasingly judgmental look. Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds later, she joins him at one of the tall tables lining the back of the shop, dressed impeccably in the kind of jacket and pants that Len can imagine in Lisa’s closet: it causes another wave of warm feelings to roll over him and he reminds himself to be cautious. He does not know this woman, however much she reminds him of Lisa, and slipping into the sarcastic banter that would earn him points with his sister might cost him the chance to see Barry again.

 

“How’s the drink?” she asks as she slides onto the barstool, setting her own cappuccino on the table.

  
“Bit heavy on the ice,” Len shrugs, smirking again at the private joke. “I like it.”

 

Her expression shifts from generic politeness to something more serious, and for a moment Len wonders if she took his comment the wrong way, but when she opens her mouth, it becomes apparent that she is not thinking about drinks at all.

  
“Look,” she sighs, “I wouldn’t normally do this. My brother might get overly excited about Star Wars and science fairs, but he’s an adult and I would respect his choices of people he wants to date. But right now, Barry… he’s vulnerable. I know he told you about what happened to him, and… I just want to make sure that you know what you’re doing. Because he might not remember if you hurt him, but I’m not gonna let anyone abuse his current state to get away with treating him like crap.”

 

Len studies the foam bubbles bursting around the ice cubes floating in his drink, and tries to push down the guilt rising up from his stomach. Getting away with ‘crap’ was one of the reasons that made Barry look so appealing, and he feels almost physically sick when he has to face the truth laid out in front of him so bluntly. He would’ve never thought of hurting Barry’s feelings – in fact, he would do a whole lot to prevent just that. But somehow, he thought that if Barry forgot they even met, it would be easier for the kid – it would be easier for both of them, because Len wouldn’t have to constantly worry about someone missing him, someone wondering where he disappeared to.

 

He thought he was protecting Barry, that not remembering would make things simple, just a bit of light-hearted fun that would leave no traces on Barry’s life and make Len’s escape route wide open. But now, sitting across from Barry’s sister, Len wonders if he’s already in too deep – if he is the one putting hurdles into his own path, preventing himself from a safe retreat.

 

For a moment, he thinks about getting up and leaving – it feels unwise to pursue this when it suddenly feels like so much more than just a bit of easy fun. And then, he remembers Barry’s smile, Barry’s arm wrapped around Len’s waist underneath his coat, Barry’s tear-bright eyes when he told Len that he did not want to forget: and he knows he’s in, head-on, a not-so-well-calculated risk that he’s willing to take for a chance to see where things might go if he only doesn’t keep looking back over his shoulder all the time.

 

“I won’t treat him like crap,” he says, and it feels like a promise, a binding contract, but he doesn’t mind, for once. She raises an unimpressed eyebrow and snorts:

  
“Really? Because leaving without a word seems pretty crappy from where I’m sitting.”

  
“I was-“

  
“On a business trip, yes, I heard. What is it you do, anyway?”

 

Her sharp tone drills into him and makes him feel marginally guilty for lying – but however honest he can be about his intentions with Barry, he cannot just tell her the truth about his life, not yet, anyway. Maybe, in time – who knows. Len does not want to get ahead of himself and think that far into the future, because it leads to speculations about Barry and how Len really, really shouldn’t drag him down into a life of crime – or at least into a life of being an accessory by default.

 

“Art and antiquities, mostly,” he shrugs. “There was an auction in Opal City I couldn’t miss.”

 

Technically, he’s telling the truth – that he wasn’t a part of the _official_ program is a minor detail.

 

Iris gives him an inquisitive look that reminds Len of his encounters with the law enforcement, and then leans back with a sigh:

 

“I get that I can’t ask you to drop whatever it is you’re doing, but… I _can_ ask you to think about this for real. Barry is not the casual type: with or without his memories, he’s in for the long haul. So if you’re looking for some short-term fun while you’re in Central City, leave him out of it.”

  
“I’m staying,” he says resolutely, and the decision nearly startles him – Lisa and Mick might not approve, and they might decide to move on earlier, without him: the thought twists his guts, because it’s been a while since he’s been without them for a prolonged time, but he finds that he does want to stay, as long as he can. “For the foreseeable future,” he adds, and Iris’ eyes are sharp when they turn to him.

  
“And how long is that?”

 

She _does_ remind him of Lisa, her questions finding sore spots with unmistakable precision – but there’s only so much reproach he’ll take from a stranger, even when it’s probably well-deserved.

  
“Can’t promise that I’ll stay forever,” he sneers, twirling the chai cup between his fingers until the ice starts clinking softly, “but I _can_ promise you that I’ll think about how Barry might feel. In fact, that’s why I’m here, because I can’t seem to _stop_ thinking about him.”

 

The blunt honesty leaves him unsettled, his mouth so used to lying through the teeth that the innermost truth of his mind and heart causes a small earthquake in his system. But Iris just regards him with a steady look, and her mouth twists into a smirk that could be amused and is very likely just sarcastic.

 

“Will you think about giving him your number this time, so that he doesn’t have to wonder why you left?”

 

“ _You_ have my number now, don’t you?” he smirks, but she doesn’t seem amused, just a little bit weary. Because of him or because she’s had a tough shift, he doesn’t know. Maybe a combination of both.

  
“Why didn’t you give him your number in the first place if you were interested in seeing him again?”

 

“Bit of an oversight on my part, I admit,” Len says wryly – he has asked himself that same question before, so it’s not like she’s not right. She rolls her eyes, again, and leans over the small table with such a great ‘no bullshit’ expression on her face that it makes him elaborate, against his better judgment.

  
“We had a date set up, for the 18th. He didn’t show.”

 

He knows he sounds like a petulant child and that it does not mean he’s off the hook about the phone number – but to his surprise, Iris’ expression softens a little, mouth curving downwards into a sad grimace.

  
“He slept through it,” she sighs, sipping her cappuccino and somehow managing to keep the foam off her upper lip, “he slept through nearly two weeks, to be accurate. It happens sometimes. It’s getting better, but we still don’t know how quickly his condition will improve.”

 

She looks up from her mug then, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Len brace himself before her next words.

  
“We don’t tell Barry about it, because we want him to keep his hopes up – he could still make a perfect recovery,” she adds quickly, probably when Len’s look starts mirroring the drop in his stomach, “but we don’t know how long it will take. Some people are fine after six months; some people still have symptoms years later. Chronic pain, tremors, depression, fatigue… and yes, the memory problems. We’re hoping Barry will be okay soon, but… there’s really no guarantee. And I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, but he doesn’t know, and I need _you_ to know, so that you can really think about what you want. And whether you can handle the whole package.”

 

Her voice grows steadily more agitated as she talks, and Len’s stomach has turned to lead halfway through her explanation. He has the strangest moment when he wishes he could reach over the table, grasp her hand and tell her it will be alright, but he doesn’t know that any more than she does. He’s just a stranger, and it’s not his place to comfort her with white lies and empty reassurances: not that he would be capable of much comfort anyway, not now when he feels like the world has dropped out from under him. He knew about Barry’s condition before, but the kid made it sound like his memory was temporarily impaired and sometimes, his hands shook, and that was pretty much it; Len never thought that it could be worse, that Barry could never fully recover.

 

He sips on his ice-cold drink and tries to ask himself, over and over, whether he should walk away now; whether he should leave Barry in the hands of his family, who obviously care, who will always be there for him, unlike one criminal who will have to leave, sooner or later, maybe for a month and maybe for a much longer time. Even if Len stopped with the heists – and something in him cringes at the idea of spending decades in idleness, without the game, without the _scores_ – there would be no guarantee that the police would not catch up with him at some point.

 

He should leave, he really should – but Len has never been good at looking away after he has already set his sights on something valuable. All he hears in his mind, when he finishes his drink, is the echo of Barry’s voice and the quiet thrum of determination, telling him that there is only possible answer to this question, however impractical, unreasonable and selfish.

  
“If he still wants to see me,” he says, throat tight with the same anxiety that gripped him all those weeks ago, when he was sitting in a coffee-shop waiting for the guy who never showed up, “you have my number. As I said, I’m here, for the foreseeable future.”

 

She studies him quietly for all of five seconds and then her expression shifts into a brilliant smile, and Len suddenly sees the family resemblance, feeling wistful longing for the kind of parents who brought up two children capable of brightening the world just by smiling.

  
“I’ll let him know you said that,” she says softly and slides off her barstool. There’s something like approval in her eyes, and Len feels like he made the right choice, long after he leaves Jitters and walks into the shitstorm called ‘Gus ate Lisa’s makeup and then threw up on her blouse’. Mick shoots him a quizzical look when Len doesn’t comment on the hellish racket Axel, Lisa and Gus are making, but when Len’s phone vibrates in his pocket with a simple ‘do you have time tomorrow? i.’, Len can’t bring himself to care about anything else.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this one got kinda long, so I'm splitting it into two chapters instead :'D this one is mostly Barry dealing with some things... more coldflash to follow XD

“I’m going to be completely honest, I was expecting a bit more progress by now,” the doctor says, frowning at the test results on her desk. Barry’s fingers tighten around the armrest of his chair so hard that his knuckles go white; his hands aren’t shaking today, but he’s been told it’s not a given. He wouldn’t know – but apparently, these days he has to rely on what people tell him is true.

 

“What does that mean?” Joe asks, and Barry’s glad, because he’s not sure he could find his voice right now. He feels like a kid again, incapable of taking responsibility for his own life, and he hates that helplessness. The lightning has erased more than just his memory, as if something has been sapping his strength, his willpower, and it’s frustrating that he doesn’t know if it’s a common theme for him these days or not.

 

The doctor pushes her large glasses up the bridge of her nose and glances up at them, her dark eyes kind. Barry interprets that look as pity, and bristles internally, but there’s not much he can say to change anything, so he keeps his mouth shut and his fingers tight on the dark wood of the armrest.

 

“There’s no need for us to panic,” the doctor says, “there’s still a good chance of full recovery, though it might take a little more time than we expected.”

 

“A little more?” Iris repeats, reaching out to grip Barry’s forearm. He desperately longs for some good news, for at least a semblance of recovery so that he can go back to taking care of himself instead of being a burden on both Joe and Iris… but he has a feeling it’s not going to come.

 

“It’s hard to say,” the doctor hedges, and Barry wants to scream. He knows he should think positive, take it one day at a time, he knows he shouldn’t lose hope – all those platitudes have been drilled into his head in the three hours he’s been awake, over breakfast, in Joe’s car, in the waiting room. He keeps gritting his teeth in order not to snap, because both Joe and Iris are reassuring themselves as much as him, but it still doesn’t make things any different in the long run.

 

“How long?” he bites out, his voice choked and weird to his own ears. Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t seem to take offense, and her eyes soften a little when she looks at Barry.

 

“You’ve suffered severe trauma, Mr. Allen. In cases like yours, recovery time varies from patient to patient. You’ve been making some progress, so I would remain cautiously optimistic, but I’ll be frank: I don’t think you’ll be returning to your job full-time at least until the end of the year.”

 

It takes him a second to make the mental calculation, because he gets tripped up on what month it actually is. The end of the year could just as well be the end of the century, and he dreads the possibility of waking up a month or two or five from now on and still not remembering. His throat closes, and Iris’ grip on his arm doesn’t help at all this time.

  
Thankfully, Joe takes the initiative again.

 

“Is there anything we can do to speed up the process?”

  
“Giving the patient time to recover at his own pace is the best approach,” the doctor replies, then turns to Barry again. “You might consider keeping a journal to keep track of the passing time: some patients in your condition find it easier to cope with the situation if they have their own thoughts and written memories to fall back on.”

 

Iris coughs, but Barry’s too weirded out by the idea of having a diary to give it much thought.

 

“I can try,” he offers half-heartedly, not thrilled by the prospect of writing down his thoughts every day; would they even be any different, or would he just see himself running in circles on those pages? _Dear diary, I don’t remember yesterday any more than I will remember today. Dear diary, I tried a new icecream flavor today – apparently I’ve been trying it for a week already._ He snorts at the cynical thoughts swirling in his head, and looks away when Iris shoots him a disapproving look.

 

They discuss the next appointment and some other minor details that Barry tunes out. He’s too keyed up from the discovery that he’s not getting better as fast as he should – that’s really the only thing that has stuck in his mind, and the doctor’s words keep replaying in his head like a broken record.

  
_I was expecting a bit more progress._

_Well, so was I_ , Barry thinks bitterly. When Iris told him he was due for a doctor’s appointment today, right after he has somehow absorbed the shock of waking up in April when he couldn’t even recall New Year’s, he subconsciously expected a miracle cure. He wanted the doctor to look at his test results, consider the answers to the questions that were addressed to him but which Joe had to answer instead, and tell him that he was doing great, that he would be fine in a week, perhaps a month.

 

To hear that he won’t be coming back to work anytime soon leaves him shaken and at a loss, and he’s still mostly non-verbal by the time they get back home.

  
“I gotta go,” Joe says, with that guilty look on his face that usually made an appearance when he had to miss Barry’s school play or Iris’ piano recital because of some case he was working at the time. Barry hates that he can still make Joe look like that when he should be a self-sufficient adult by now.

 

“Okay,” he snaps, more sharply than he intended to, and immediately feels bad about it, so he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Joe.

 

“Thanks. For everything,” he mutters into Joe’s jacket, eyes stinging. “I probably say that every day, huh?”

 

He tries to chuckle, but it comes out a little too choked; Joe brushes his broad, familiar fingers down Barry’s nape and holds him close until Barry stops feeling like he’ll fly apart the moment Joe lets go.

  
“I love you, kid,” Joe smiles and pats his cheek when they part. “You’ll be fine, I know it.”

 

Barry doesn’t have the heart to voice his doubts about that: he smiles in return and watches Joe walk back to his car. How many times has Joe said it before? Were there days when Barry believed him? He honestly doesn’t know, and it’s not like he can ask, so he wanders back inside and lets his body drop onto the couch, exhaling deeply.

  
Iris sits next to him, and Barry can almost feel her worried gaze like a physical touch.

  
“I’m okay,” he says: maybe it’ll be true if he keeps persuading himself. Thing is, he only has until tonight to say it enough times for it to stick – and he’ll have to start over from scratch tomorrow. Weariness settles over him like a heavy blanket and he sighs again, but it doesn’t ease that weight in his chest.

 

“Mmhmm,” Iris hums, her disbelief clear in that single sound.

 

“As much as I can be,” he amends, and Iris leans into him, her hair spilling over his shoulder. She must be using a different shampoo now, vanilla and flowers wafting up to Barry’s nose where citrus used to be, and it’s a stupid thing to be upset about, but it makes him wonder how many things in her life he has missed so far.

  
She doesn’t let him spiral – somehow, she still knows when he’s about to think himself into his own personal hell. A light pat on his chest catches his attention and he opens his eyes just in time to watch her push away from the couch and stand up, hand extended towards him.

  
“Come with me,” she smiles. “There’s something else you need to see, and I think it might help a bit.”

 

Reluctantly, he grabs her hand; she’s surprisingly strong, or maybe he has just become weaker than before, but he lets her pull him to his feet and lead him upstairs, to his room.

  
“You know how doctor Thorpe told you to keep a journal?”

 

Barry instinctively glances at his bedside table, but no journal-like object has materialized there since he first woke up. “Yeah?”

 

“Well, you already started one. Kind of,” she chuckles and grabs his laptop, sitting down on Barry’s bed and patting the space next to her in an invitation. “Come here. You should read this.”

 

Cold sweat washes down Barry’s back at the thought that Iris, of all people, has read his diary, but she’s not acting upset or weird around him, so he couldn’t have put down anything too incriminating.

 

She opens a text file and pushes the laptop onto his knees, and Barry wonders what exactly it is he has written that makes her look so expectant.

 

The first words make him snort: trust him to know that he is going to freak out every morning about his condition. It’s the next sentence that truly makes his brain stop, though. His eyes widen, but the words don’t change no matter how many times he re-reads them. A spectacular blush creeps up his neck and Barry has to swallow a few times to get rid of the tightness in his throat, but when he looks at Iris, she doesn’t seem surprised at all.

 

“When…?” he mutters, and she nods towards the laptop:

 

“Go on. Read it.”

 

He’s not sure he wants to: his brain is a whirlwind of questions right now, too busy coming up with increasingly convoluted scenarios to truly grasp the meaning of words. But if he’s going to get answers, getting them from _himself_ might actually work best, so Barry takes a deep breath and turns his eyes back towards the screen.

 

He’s none the wiser five minutes ago: the journal entry is no more than a page long, but it takes several re-reads for the words to truly penetrate his confused brain. It’s clear that the past him was excited about the guy, and if Barry’s honest, it does sound like a perfect first date.

 

A little too perfect, if he’s honest. A hot, older man taking a convenient interest in a scrawny geek, being a perfect gentleman, a good kisser, and also willing to look past Barry’s numerous issues? It’s been a long time since Barry believed in fairy tales, and a part of him, the part that is a minefield of paranoia right now, wonders if maybe Iris is trying to make him feel better. There was no password on the file, after all, no guarantee that it was Barry himself who wrote it.

 

Guilt immediately washes over him for suspecting Iris of such an underhanded approach: she might want to make him happy, but she wouldn’t lie to achieve it. Would she…?

 

Barry shakes his head as if to shake off the invasive thoughts, and sighs.

 

“I don’t remember any of it.”

  
“That’s the whole point of the journal, Barr,” Iris scoffs and swats at his arm. “Keep writing it and then read it in the mornings so that you can enjoy more hot dates with your new boyfriend. And I’ve said this before, but seeing as you don’t know that I have, I’ll say it again: I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”

 

Barry almost cringes: he doesn’t want her to know that the reasons why he never told her were more his fault than hers, hinging on his unhealthy infatuation with her. He still recognizes echoes of those feelings in his heart, even though they seem to have faded somewhat, possibly in light of the more pressing matters in his life, such as the fact that he’s stuck in some weird reverse Groundhog Day.

  
“I never even kissed a guy,” he sighs, not wanting Iris to think that he lied to her before. She grins and wiggles an eyebrow at him in response.

  
“Based on what that says,” she waves her hand at the laptop, “that’s not entirely true.”

 

Barry’s stomach churns and he glances at the lines of text again, but none of that feels familiar. None of it feels like he has experienced it first-hand and he doesn’t want to think about it, because it drives home the sorry state he’s in. All he wants is to curl up in bed and sleep away the rest of the day, and then wake up tomorrow and not know that the doctor said he will be useless for the better part of this year, at the very least.

 

Maybe this condition has its silver lining, after all.

  
Some of his thoughts must show clearly on his face, because Iris closes the laptop, removes it from his lap and then grabs his hands:

  
“No no no. I’m not letting you sit here all day and mope. You’re coming with me. My shift starts at two, so you’ve got about an hour to shower and find something nice to wear. And do something with your hair,” she tugs playfully at the messy strand that’s falling into Barry’s eyes – when was the last time he had a haircut?

 

He pushes the hair out of his face and frowns.

  
“Why?” he asks – there are too many ways to finish that question, such as ‘why would I need to wear something nice if I’m just coming to Jitters with you’ or ‘ _why_ am I coming to Jitters’, so he leaves it open for interpretation. Iris manages to answer all of it in one go.

  
“Because you have a date.”

  
“What?!” Barry’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest. “What do you mean, a date? I don’t-“

  
He stops himself before he can say ‘I don’t remember agreeing to a date’, because _of course_ he doesn’t, but the journal talked about Valentine’s and now it’s the end of April: if he truly got himself a boyfriend, why would it take more than two months for them to meet again? Disappointment twists his gut and it’s weird to feel let down by someone he doesn’t remember, but if this Len guy were so understanding, why wouldn’t he show up sooner? Barry wants to check his phone for messages, for missed calls, or even received ones, any clue that this might actually be true, but Iris is giving him that intense stare she gets from Joe, and Barry can’t look away.

  
“He was away on business, apparently,” Iris reads his mind like she used to when they were kids, “but I think he should be the one to tell you all this. I just met him briefly-“

 

“When?” Barry yelps, startled at the thought of someone he might be casually dating meeting his family already. Heck, shouldn’t Barry meet him _first_? Except he already has… probably.

 

“Yesterday,” Iris shrugs. “I tried to find him before, but he only got back recently and found my ad. He called me and we met, and he agreed to meet you today.”

 

It’s too much too fast, and Barry’s head spins. He sinks onto the mattress again and rubs a hand down his face, feeling lost.

  
“I’m not really in the mood for a date today, Iris.” After what the doctor said… he’s sure he would be better company on some other day, a day when he won’t remember just how wrong his life is right now. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

 

“No.”

 

He looks up, startled by her decisive tone, and she looks right back, unrelenting.

 

“No,” she repeats. “Look, Barry… I’ve been walking on eggshells around you for months now. I’m not blaming you,” she adds quickly, probably in response to his startled, guilty expression. Her hand covers his, squeezing lightly before she continues. “It’s not your fault, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not really doing you any favors by letting you close yourself off from everything. Physically, today’s a good day for you. Tomorrow, you might sleep the day away. Life happens _now_ , maybe more so for you than for me at the moment, but that’s how it is, and you have to give yourself a chance. You know, seize the day and all that.”

 

Her words sound harsh to his ears, but underneath the immediate hurt, Barry can feel that she’s right. If life gives you lemons about to go bad, you don’t wait for them to spoil before making lemonade.

 

With a sigh, he shakes his head.

 

“I’m not going to be good company tonight.”

 

“Yeah,” she says softly, “I know. That’s exactly why I think you should go.”

 

That doesn’t make sense to Barry at all, and that exasperation creeps into his voice. “I don’t even remember this guy. Why should he put up with me?’

 

“Because he seems to be serious about you, and he knows about your condition. He has to accept you as you are, and you’re allowed to have a bad day, okay? You’re allowed to feel lost and upset, and if he really wants to be with you, then he has to figure out a way to deal with it. A way to be there _for_ you when you need him.”

 

“It just seems a bit unfair,” Barry squirms. How can he put so much pressure on someone he doesn’t even remember? It’s too much to ask for a casual date… it would be too much to ask in a serious relationship too, and Barry’s never been good at asking for help or support, especially if he can’t offer much in return. “I can’t be there for him the same way.”

 

“You will be, one day.”

 

The unshakable conviction in her voice makes Barry smile, even if he doesn’t truly believe it at the moment. The closed laptop sitting next to him catches his attention again, and he thinks about all the words he supposedly wrote himself, about the man who made him feel alive and happy and flustered, who kissed him in the park and shared a heart-shaped cookie and sang horrible cheesy 80s songs. Barry wants to meet that man, even if nothing comes off it, even if all he says is ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’. But he wants at least one more day of knowing what ‘Len’ looks like, and whether he will make Barry feel all those things he supposedly felt before.

 

“You really think I should go?” he asks quietly, teetering on the verge of accepting this insanity. When he looks at Iris, she’s smiling.

  
“Yeah, Barr. I think you should.”

 

“So you liked him?” he chuckles a bit, and she gives him a playful shove in response.

  
“He was alright. I wouldn’t have guessed that you’d go for the silver fox type…”

 

She laughs as his eyes go wide, but doesn’t let him worry too much.

  
“Relax, Barry, he’s not _that_ old. And he doesn’t look it. Seriously, go out and have fun, take it easy and you’ll see how it goes. I’ll be right there if you need me.”

 

The thought of Iris being just a few feet away puts his mind at ease, even though he still wonders what the point is, going for a date he won’t remember tomorrow.

  
“I just… I still think it’s a bit unfair to him. I mean, I don’t remember anything. What if I don’t feel the same way about him than I did before?” he mumbles anxiously.

  
“Then you’ll know. Nobody’s forcing you to marry the guy, Barr… and I know you feel like you’re not worth all the trouble – yes, I know you, so don’t even try – but you _are_. You deserve to be happy, Barry, and you gotta give yourself a chance, alright?”

 

With her encouragement lodged firmly in the back of his mind, he does go take that shower. There’s not much he can do for his hair at this point, but he does make an actual effort to pick out clothes that might suit him. He opts for a red shirt and a grey jacket that don’t make him look sickly pale, and then spends half an hour fidgeting and anxiously trailing through the house in an attempt to make time fly faster. He doesn’t know where all that nervous, excited energy has come from, but his palms actually start sweating on the drive to Jitters; he lets Iris go in first, and it takes him a little longer before he musters up the courage to push that door open himself.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I suck at updating, and I'm sorry for the long wait :'D a lot has been happening IRL, along with a bit of a writer's block.   
> Comments warm my soul so thank you for all of them, I couldn't find the strength to carry on with this story without you. Concrit is always appreciated as well.

Almost every table at Jitters is occupied. Barry’s brain momentarily stutters on the challenge of finding the date he doesn’t even know, but then someone waves at him and Barry’s eyes land on the most attractive man he’s ever seen in real life. He’s definitely older than Barry, but in that Hollywood way that reminds of glamorous parties and paparazzi. Except the guy emanates this steady, quiet sense of calm and Barry’s instantly drawn to that, fidgeting mess that he is.

 

There’s no way someone that hot is there for _him_. Instinctively, Barry turns around, but there’s no one else standing behind him. Barry blinks. The man waves again.

 

Embarrassment burns Barry’s cheeks when he starts making his way to the table, taking in the guy’s gorgeous smile, his eyes (the description in his journal definitely didn’t do them justice), or the way his shoulders fill the leather jacket when he pushes himself up to greet Barry, offering a simple handshake. It’s a relief that he doesn’t seem to be expecting a hug or a kiss: Barry’s always been tactile, but this guy, no matter how gorgeous, is still a stranger.

  
“Hey. I’m Len,” he says simply, as if he’s completely okay with Barry not remembering him, as if he’s fully accepted that condition of their potential relationship, and Barry’s heart melts a little at how _not_ awkward the guy makes him feel. His fingers are long and elegant and they feel so good wrapped briefly, firmly around Barry’s hand that it takes a moment for Barry’s brain to reboot.

  
“I’m Barry, hi,” he replies, and immediately wants to kick himself. He cringes and gives the guy a small smile: “But you already know that, huh.”

 

“Don’t mind hearing it again,” Len smirks, and somehow it just makes him look more handsome. “Can I get you anything?”

 

Barry opens his mouth to say that he’s good, but then he realizes it would probably look weird if he sat there without a drink. It could give Len the impression that Barry doesn’t intend to stay long, that he doesn’t really want to be here – which he kind of doesn’t, but it’s got nothing to do with Len and everything to do with the way this day has gone. And so, Barry nods and mumbles ‘cappuccino’, watching Len’s broad back and graceful movements when the man walks to the bar.

 

At this point, Barry can safely assume that he _is_ attracted to Len, at least on the basic physical level; his body is a mess of warm fuzzies and excited tingling just thinking about kissing the man. Maybe if Barry were alright, he could imagine going out with Len, for real, but like this… what would be the point? Barry could never bring himself to build his relationships solely on the physical side of things;  he’s always needed more, a connection based on trust, and he can’t have that in the limited time his brain can process at the moment. Even if he got to know Len better in the few hours they have, he’d just forget it all the next morning, and reading about dating someone is not the same as having that deep-seated belief that he can share his life with this person.

 

He’s contemplating how to put it into actual words without sounding like a complete asshole when Len comes back with a big mug of steaming goodness, and Barry almost groans at the sight.

  
“Thanks,” he mumbles, and Len smiles; it makes him look younger and even hotter, and Barry’s heart twists with the knowledge that Len is another person he can’t have. The man sits next to him, and his icy blue eyes seem to be seeing right through Barry’s weak pretenses.

  
“Now tell me what’s wrong.”

 

Barry startles at the question – no, it’s not a question at all, Len seems to be sure that something’s up, and the thought that a stranger knows him so well, or that he looks miserable enough that Len picks up on it, makes Barry groan inwardly.

  
“Why do you think something’s wrong?” he stalls. Len gives him such a wonderful ‘are you kidding me’ stare that Barry is almost amused.

  
“You look tired.”

 

A warm hand covers his cold fingers, and Barry wonders if he should pull away, but oddly, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable at this level of intimacy, so he leaves his hand where it is. Remembering Iris’ words, he takes a deep breath: it’s not like he thinks he has much of a chance with Len, anyway, so there’s no point trying to pretend that this is a regular date of two normal people.

 

“I had a doctor’s appointment,” he starts, and prays that his voice doesn’t give out. His throat feels raw and tight, and Barry takes a sip of his coffee to wash that soreness down, but it doesn’t help much.

 

Len gives him time to collect his thoughts, but there’s no easy way to say it, so Barry steels himself and goes for it.

  
“She said that I’m not recovering as fast as I should be. I probably won’t be okay at least for a few months, maybe a year or more, and… I can’t go back to work, I can’t do anything, really, just sit tight and wait for a miracle that might never happen.”

 

The words that spill out of his mouth reveal his greatest fear: that he will never recover, that he might never get back to the point where he can lead a normal life, have a job, _date_ … he didn’t let himself think about it in such final terms before, but now that he’s said it, the idea chokes him and pushes tears into his eyes until he can barely breathe for the pain in his chest.

  
“And… and I’m a burden to everyone, Iris, Joe, I don’t think I even know what’s going on in their lives anymore because I don’t know what’s going on in mine and I don’t know what to do about it.”

 

There’s a tinge of hysteria in his voice as it grows louder, and he’s faintly aware of the other customers nearby turning their heads to stare, but he can’t stop himself.

 

“I mean, I don’t remember you at all and it feels like I should, but I don’t and it’s not _fair_ -“

 

“Barry,” Len sounds alarmed, and Barry looks at him, but he can barely see the man’s handsome face for all the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. “Barry, listen to me, I want you to take a deep breath. Yeah, that’s it. Now hold it… let it out. Breathe in. Out.”

  
Len’s voice is a steady point in the storm of Barry’s raging thoughts and he focuses on the simple commands, listening to Len’s own breathing as he obeys. Slowly, the tension in his chest abates a little: the anxiety is still bubbling right under the surface, but it doesn’t feel like a tidal wave about to break over his head anymore.

  
After a few more breaths, he realizes he’s clutching Len’s hand to the point where it has to hurt. He forces his cramped fingers to ease their grip, but Len’s other hand comes to cover his knuckles, just holding on.

  
“Listen,” Len says, voice all quiet and soothing, “I think you could do with some fresh air, and we can go sit in the park right outside, but if you’d rather not, I can go get your sister instead. Your choice. Just nod if you’d like me to go fetch her.”

 

Barry hates making a spectacle of himself: he can still feel people staring, but he hates the thought of bothering Iris at work. He’s been a burden on her enough for one day… enough for a century, maybe. The thought tastes sour in the back of his throat and he resolutely shakes his head.

 

After all, his past self has trusted Len before and he wasn’t murdered, so he’s probably going to be fine trusting him again.

 

He brushes the heel of his hand over his eyes and swallows, but he can barely bring himself to whisper. “No. I’ll go with you.”

  
“Alright,” Len says, his thumb brushing a soothing line over Barry’s knuckles. “Gonna go tell your sister where we’re going, okay? I’ll be back. Keep breathing, alright?”

  
Barry has a feeling he would normally laugh at being asked to do something so trivial, but he doesn’t quite know what ‘normal’ is anymore, and at the moment, breathing in and breathing out feels like a chore, so he focuses on filling his lungs and releasing the air, as slowly as he can manage, and tries not to shiver when the warmth of Len’s hands leaves him.

 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Len’s back. It could’ve be a minute or fifteen, but there’s a cardboard drink holder in Len’s hand, with two Styrofoam cups, so it has probably been the latter. He offers his free hand to Barry, and it shouldn’t be so easy to take it, but Barry’s world steadies a bit when he wraps his fingers around Len’s.

 

He lets himself be led outside, into the warm spring afternoon, keeping his head down and trying to hold it together. Len leads them through the park, to an unoccupied bench overlooking the small pond. Barry absently watches people jogging on the other side of the pond, and tries to focus on the fact that the world is still turning.

 

But it’s hard to find solace in that when it feels that Barry’s the only thing that’s stopped, without any hope of recovery or revival. The sting returns to his eyes and his throat closes, and he furiously swallows, trying to push back all those horrible, looming feelings. A Styrofoam cup is pressed into his hands and when he takes a sip without thinking much, the herbal tea burns his tongue.

 

“I didn’t think that more caffeine was the way to go right now,” Len explains, even though Barry never asked about the choice of beverages; in a way, Barry’s glad for that bit of conversation, even though it feels like he’s supposed to be trying, too, and he just can’t bring himself to think of anything to say to that. Len looks a bit wistful and maybe coffee brings back memories for him: Barry’s envious of that, because his own mind remains blank.

 

He takes another sip of his tea and stares at the pond, hoping that the pulsing pain in his throat and the rawness in his sinuses will go away if he wishes hard enough.

 

“Go ahead,” Len says quietly, kindly, and Barry doesn’t really know what he’s referring to, but the dam breaks and he doubles over as the first suppressed sob slams out of him almost painfully loudly. He cries like he only remembers crying when he was eleven years old and they told him his parents were dead, hysterically and hopelessly, his body rocking and his heart hurting, and the worst part is he might’ve cried like this every day for the past few months, and he might spend the next few doing the same, without even knowing about it.

 

With his loved ones sitting on the bylines, watching him do the same thing, over and over again.

 

At some point, a warm hand starts rubbing half-formed patterns into his back, a feather-light touch that just makes everything worse for a while, until it doesn’t. Barry leans into it, even though he feels like an asshole for it: he should be letting the man go, telling him that there was no future for them. Not that Len doesn’t know that – he _has_ to know, after this, and maybe he’ll walk away for good today. Barry can’t wait to forget how much the thought hurts. 

 

He doesn’t realize Len’s talking until his hysterical, choked sobs turn into silent tears, streaming down his face and making his nose drip. He’s wondering what Len’s still doing here, because Barry must look gross right now, weak and broken and childish, but the warm hand never leaves his back and eventually, words filter into Barry’s brain, calm and quiet ones like ‘that’s it’ and ‘let it out’, like Len doesn’t mind that Barry has saddled him with the full extent of his pain five minutes after meeting him.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles and sniffs, trying to wipe his face on the sleeve of his jacket. A tissue appears in his blurry line of vision and he takes it, mostly as a public service to keep his snot away from… everything, really. There’s no way of blowing his nose gracefully so he does his best not to think about how it sounds or how it makes him look and focuses on making himself a little more presentable before he looks at Len again. He feels raw, shaken, like the only thing holding him together is that he doesn’t have the strength to fly apart any more, but the breaking point isn’t too far off, so Barry takes a wheezing breath and repeats: “Sorry.”

 

Len shakes his head, his hand migrating to Barry’s knee like he’s worried that Barry will disappear if he breaks the contact. For all Barry knows, he might not be fully there anyway, not with his brain the way it is, not when he’s shaking so badly he can’t keep still.

 

“Not your fault,” Len says softly, and Barry wants to cry again – of course it’s his fault, accidents like that don’t happen without some serious screw-up in the lab. He must’ve overlooked something, must’ve been rushing like always, knocked something over, spilled something important, it must be his fault somehow. And maybe if he did something differently, if he tried harder, he would be further down the recovery road, closer to normal.

 

“Barry.” Len’s voice tears him out of his spiraling thoughts; his fingers tighten a little on Barry’s knee and there’s something to be said about the way Len focuses all of his attention on Barry, like the world outside has stopped existing. It’s a little bit overwhelming, but it grounds Barry in a way he would not have expected, and he’s actually capable of shutting out his thoughts and listening when Len continues.

  
“It’s not your fault, you hear me? Things don’t always happen to people who deserve them. Some things, nobody really deserves... no use blaming yourself.”

 

Barry lets out a weak laugh at that: rationally, he knows Len’s right, because Barry’s parents did not deserve to die either, because Iris did not deserve to lose her mom so soon, and none of the dead people Barry has examined in his line of work deserved what they got. Life is like that sometimes – but no amount of rational thinking can wash away the guilt lodged in his chest. Because in that guilt, there’s a tiny amount of hope: hope that he can prevent something like this from happening again, if only he figures out how.

 

“Sorry,” he repeats, feeling like a broken record. “I’m sure you didn’t really come here for this.”

 

“No,” Len agrees, and Barry gives him a startled look, but Len is smiling, like Barry hasn’t just made a complete fool of himself. “I came here today for you.”

 

It’s honestly the sweetest, most romantic thing someone has ever said to Barry, and a part of him appreciates the words, but mostly he just wants to scream. What is it that Len sees in him? It feels like yet another obligation, yet another person he’ll disappoint with his mere existence, and it makes Barry take a few deep breaths to quell the rising pressure of anxiety.

  
“Why,” he croaks, more of a statement, a negation instead of a question.

 

For a long moment, Len is silent, and Barry’s mind comes up with several horrible scenarios. He’s still trying to decide whether he dreads the ones in which Len leaves or the ones in which he stays when Len speaks again, looking into the distance like he’s trying to find answers in the pond water.

 

“Just something about you, I guess.”

 

A slightly manic laugh bursts out of Barry’s throat, a bark more than anything else. And he’s angry, all of a sudden – angry at himself for not remembering, for not _knowing_ what he could’ve possibly said or done that attracted a man like Len, handsome, confident, kind. At least that’s how he seems on the surface: but even if he stepped out of line, if he showed his true colors, Barry wouldn’t know, would he? And the shifty answer fans the coals of that anger until it gives Barry enough strength to frown and pull his leg away from Len’s touch.

 

“Is that it? That’s what you’re going with? ‘Something’ about me… what is it that you expect from me here? Do you always go for the broken ones, is that a thing? I would say ‘no offense’ but I don’t actually know anything about you, ‘Len’, except for the fact that you took one look at someone who is totally messed-up and you decided that you wanted a piece of that, which is not a ringing endorsement-“

 

“The first time we met, it was right here.”

 

The words aren’t loud, but they startle Barry into silence for about three seconds before he’s frowning again.

 

“With the dog? What’s that got to do with-“

 

“No,” Len interrupts, and shifts on the bench, meeting Barry’s eyes again. “January thirtieth. I was waiting for a call, and then you literally fell into my path. You were dizzy, and I helped you sit down, over there.” He waves his hand towards another bench not too far from where they’re sitting, and Barry holds on tooth and nail to his anger, refusing to feel embarrassed about blowing up at Len just yet.

 

“Is that it?” he challenges, and the corners of Len’s mouth curl up a little bit for a second.

 

“Sounds too simple, doesn’t it? I’ll be honest with you, Barry, I’m not usually the caring type. There’s a certain level of… ruthlessness, required for my job. You need to understand: I don’t usually feel the urge to take care of someone. But you looked at me, and your hands were shaking and… I wanted to take care of you. To see you again. I tried: I went back, but you didn’t remember me. Thought I was some creep when I offered you a cup of hot chocolate, and I almost gave up. Yes, you were cute, but maybe too much trouble.”

 

Barry looks away at that, embarrassment and shame flooding his cheeks in a hot wave, but Len reaches for him and wraps his fingers around Barry’s tightly clasped hands. It’s impossible to pull away, like there’s an invisible force keeping Barry right there, even though he wants nothing more than to run. And Len continues, like he doesn’t care that Barry doesn’t actually want to hear that he’s nothing more than a casual one-night-stand for Len. He’d never admit it out loud, but he wants to hear that he’s more than that, wants it so desperately in that moment that he can taste the bitter regret in the back of his throat, regret that he demanded answers he’s not ready to hear. He wanted… well, he’s stupid like that, he wanted something solid, something true, and listening to Len’s brutal honesty should feel like vindication of Barry’s previous anger, but it just feels like shards of glass buried near his heart, another in the long line of rejections that Barry can’t wait to forget.

 

“Why didn’t you? Give up?” he asks, quietly. Len’s thumb traces a path over his knuckles, slowly, evenly.

 

“The gallery. It was a coincidence – I did not seek you out, but you were there, on a tour. I took you to see a painting… and you asked me if I brought you there because I was lonely. And then you fled, without much of a goodbye, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that.”

 

It feels weird, listening to Len’s memories that Barry does not share, memories they made together but which Barry lost somewhere along the way. He suddenly imagines Len, lying in a bed somewhere, thinking of him while Barry was completely unaware that Len even existed, and Barry maybe isn’t as much of a good guy as he always believed, because something warm and soft settles in his belly at the thought.

  
“So the dog thing…” he prompts, and Len actually chuckles.

 

“Didn’t have a dog prior to meeting you. Bought a leash and thought I could talk to you, get you to help, get to meet you properly, again. But then you found an actual dog and I had to take it home. I still owe my sister a few pairs of shoes.”

 

“I… I’m not sure if that’s sweet or creepy.”

 

“Fair,” Len smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little, and it feels like Barry’s stomach disappears with a loud ‘whoosh’. His precarious balance between anger and attraction tilts wildly in Len’s favor and he has to swallow to stop himself from doing something ridiculous, like leaning forward and kissing Len right there. No matter how Len’s stories sound, Barry still doesn’t know anything about the guy, aside from the growing urge to throw away all rational thought and kiss him stupid. Barry almost doesn’t recognize himself: he’s never been this aggressively attracted to someone, not as far as he can remember, and he’s swinging so wildly between emotions that he’s reeling a little. That’s what ultimately rings the alarm bell in the back of his mind. Maybe he’s just compensating for the time he doesn’t have here: maybe his subconscious is pushing him into Len’s arms because he knows he won’t remember anything in just a few short hours, and he wants to live in the moment, like Iris said.

 

But that’s not what he needs, and underneath the sudden shaky spike of lust, he knows himself too well to actually do it, so he untangles his fingers, knuckles aching a little from the pressure, and puts his hand over Len’s in a gentle touch.

 

Silence settles over them like a comfortable blanket, and Barry becomes aware of the early spring sun warming his face. It’s… nice, sitting out here, surprisingly comfortable once the panic has died down. Funny, that: Barry didn’t even notice it happening. It’s probably just another phase in his roller-coaster day of emotional breakdowns, a calm before a storm, but he’s willing to enjoy the moment while it lasts. He doesn’t want to talk anymore, bring up all the crazy things that have been swirling in his head ever since he woke up, found out he’s lost nearly four months of his life and will likely lose another few, and that he’s found himself a boyfriend he doesn’t remember. The word ‘boyfriend’ itself settles like a weight in his stomach, heavy with the responsibility and commitment he’s not ready for, and he wonders if he should just end it right here, say ‘goodbye’ and walk away before something happens, good or bad, something he won’t remember again.

 

As if sensing the tension seeping back into Barry’s shoulders, Len squeezes his hand and breaks the silence.

 

“Now that you know, what is it that _you_ want, Barry?”

 

And isn’t that the question. What is it that he wants? He wants Len to hold his hand, right now and maybe later, maybe tomorrow when he won’t know anything about this moment, about his breakdown and about the doctor’s appointment. He wants to run and hide and wait it out, until he’s normal again, until everything has passed and he can meet Len on equal terms, build something solid and real and lasting. But the thing is, he doesn’t know when – or whether – that will happen, whether he’ll ever be anything close to ‘normal’ again, and the thought of letting Len slip away… hurts. Barry’s too shaken up to decide and he knows it, but the thing is… sitting here with Len, soaking up the sun and the easy affection, it helps keep Barry steady, and he needs that more than anything.

 

“I want...” he starts, but it’s hard to put it into actual words, so he takes another breath and tries again. “I don’t want you to go. But I can’t promise you much as I am, and I can’t promise it’ll get better. I probably can’t give you what you want, not right now, but… it would be nice to have someone. I mean. Someone who would… someone I could go out with, sometimes. Who’d make sure I don’t die in a ditch somewhere,” he offers Len a wry smile and thinks about Iris’ words, about how this is a good day for him, physically speaking. It makes Barry wonder how the bad days look and how many of them there are in his life. “I take up too much of Joe’s and Iris’ time, and it feels like I’ve become a burden to them. And I don’t want to feel like that all the time, even if it’s only for a few hours every day. I don’t want them to put their lives on hold for me, I don’t want them to watch me wait around for something that might never come. What I’m saying is… I could use a friend, most of all. But I understand if that’s not what you signed up for.”

 

“Making sure people don’t die in a ditch is actually a secret superpower of mine,” Len jokes, and just like that Barry’s eyes sting again, but it’s mostly relief, he thinks.

 

“Lucky me,” he jokes back, but it comes out all brittle and wrong, and he doesn’t resist when Len draws him into a one-armed hug, letting Barry rest against his side. It’s almost startling how easy it feels, how right, to curl into Len and let his warmth wash away the horrible day Barry’s had. He could get used to this, and it breaks his heart a little that he won’t, not anytime soon. But the sliver of hope that maybe, Len might stay long enough for them to have a shot, makes Barry close his eyes and let that hope drown out everything else.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come squeal with me about all the slash Flash pairings [on tumblr.](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/)


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